vkw'^^nfylw'  '^^'^'^■■r-    '*'   .  ■''-•*?t<**  V    'S'  "■••■•' 


^A1 


i*»  A 


V 


4  ^--L^ 


4 


OF 

ZBTQUIRV     ON     ZKEZSSIONS 

AND 

THE   STATE   OF  RELIGIOX. 


LIBRARY 

OF   THE 

Theological    Seminary, 

PRINCETON,    N.  J. 
case ,;...„        ^CC. 

1 


<                 Shelf,                              Section. ./!r  A  J^.j!i 
Book, No,. 


REMAINS 


/ 
/ 

REV.   CARIiOS   WlliCOX, 

i.\Tt     PAOTOfi    OF     THK    NORTH    CONGRF.ti  ATIO.V  Al, 
CUl'RCH     IS     HARTFOBB. 


jHemott  of  \\X%  ILife, 


HARTFORD, 

PUBLISHED  BY  EDWARD  HOPKINS. 


MDCCCXXVIII. 


DISTRICT  OF  CONNECTICUT  SS. 

Be  it  MLMEMiiLRED,  That  on  the  seventeenth  day  of  June,  in  the  fifty  sec- 
li.  S«  ond  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  Unit»d  States  of  America,  Edwahd 
Hopkins,  of  the  said  District,  hath  deposited  in  this  office  the  title  of  a 
Book)  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as  Proprietor,  in  the  words  following,  to  wit ; — 
"  Remains  of  the  Rev.  Carlos  Wilcox,  late  Pastor  of  the  Nc-th  Congregational 
Church  in  Hartford,  with  a  Memoir  of  his  Life  "  In  conformity  to  the  net  of  Con- 
gress of  the  United  States,  entitled,  "  An  act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning, 
by  securing  the  copies  of  Maps,  Charts  and  Books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors 
of  such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned." — And  also  to  the  act,  entitled, 
"  An  act  supplementary  to  an  act,  entitled  '  An  act  for  the  encouragement  of 
learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts,  and  books,  to  the  authors  and 
proprietors  of  such  copies  during  the  times  therein  mentioned,'  and  extending  the 
benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing,  engraving,  and  etching  historical  and 
other  prints." 

CHAS.  A.  INGERSOLL, 
Clerk  of  the  District  of  Connecticut.    ^ 
A  true  eopv  of  Record,  examined  and  sealed  by  me, 

CHAS.  A.  INGERSOLL, 
Clerk  of  the  District  of  Connecticut. 


i'  C'anfifid,  Printer. 


PREFACE 

The  desire  has  been  expressed  by  many  of  the 
numerous  friends  of  Mr.  Wilcox,  that  some  memo- 
rial of  him  might  be  collected  from  his  writings. 
Though  these  Remains  may  fall  below  the  expec- 
tations of  those  who  knew  the  distinguished  excel- 
lencies of  the  writer,  still  it  is  believed  that  they 
will  prove  a  valuable  memento  of  departed  worth, 
and  promote  the  cause  of  truth  and  piety,  now 
he  who  so  ably  advocated  this  cause  while  liv- 
ing, has  finished  his  course  on  earth  and  passed  in- 
to a  better  and  more  glorious  world.  It  must  be 
expected  that  there  will  be  some  disappointment, 
among  those  who  shall  peruse  this  volume,  after 
having  heard  some  of  the  sermons  from  the  lips  of 
the  writer.  Much  of  his  excellence  as  a  preacher, 
depended  upon  what  cannot  be  discovered  in  ser- 
mons from  the  press.  The  sweet  voice,  the  em- 
phatic pronunciation,  the  eloquence  of  looks  and 
gesture,  which  have  sent  a  thrill  of  deep  feeling 
through  many  a  listener  to  the  man,  cannot  be 
transferred  to  the  book. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
MEMOIR 9 

POETRY. 

THE  AGE  OF  BEx\EVOLENCE.                     .      Book  I.  95 

Extracts  from  Book  II.  .  .  147 

Extracts  from  Book  III.  .  .  157 

Extracts  from  Book  IV.  .  .  171 

THE  RELIGION  OF  TASTE 177 

Pronounced  before  the  Society  of  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  at  Yale  College. 

SERMONS. 

SERMON  I.  DUTY  OF  MI.VISTERS 211 

/.  Peter,  4,  11. — If  any  man  speak,  let  him  speak  as  the  orac'.es  of  God  ; 
if  any  man  minister,  let  him  do  it  as  of  the  ability  which  God  giveth  ; 
that  God  in  all  things  may  be  glorified,  through  Jesus  Christ ;  to  whom 
be  praise  and  dominion  forever  and  ever.     Amen. 

SERMON  II.      DIVLNITY  OF  CHRIST  PROVED  FROM  HIS  BELNG 

THE  FINAL  JUDGE 229 

John,  5,  22. — For  the  Father  judgeth  no  man,  but  hath  committed  all 
jud;:ment  unto  the  Son,  that  all  men  should  honour  the  Son,  even  as 

they  honour  the  Father. 

SERMON  m.  DEVOTEDNESS  TO  GOD.  ...        248 

Psalm  57,  7.— My  heart  is  fixed,  O  God,  my  heart  is  fixed  :  I  will  sing 
and  give  praise. 

SERMON  IV.  REPENTANCE 267 

Job,  42,  5,  6. — I  have  heard  of  thee  by  the  hearing  of  the  ear  ;  but  now 
mine  eye  seetb  thee.  Wherefore  I  abhor  myself,  and  repent  in  dust 
and  ashes. 

SERMON  V.  MOTIVES  TO  EARLY  PIETY 283 

Ecclesiastes,  12,  1.— Remember  now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy  voutb, 
while  the  evil  days  come  not,  nor  the  years  draw  nigh,  when  thou 
•halt  say,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  them. 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Page 
SERMON  VI.  INFLUENCE  OF  EDUCATION.  ...       297 

Luke,  1,  66.— What  manner  of  child  shall  this  be  .' 

SERMON  VII.  LOVE  TO  GOD 311 

Mark,  12,  30.— Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart,  and 
with  all  thy  soul,  and  with  all  thy  mind,  and  with  all  thy  strength. 

SERMON  VIII.        THE  DISCONSOLATE  CHRISTIAN.  ,       324 

Isaiah,  50,  10. — Who  is  among  you  that  feareth  the  Lord,  that  obeyeth 
the  voice  of  his  Servant,  that  walketh  in  darkness  and  hath  no  light .' 
let  him  trust  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  and  stay  upon  his  God. 

SERMON  IX.  COMING  TO  CHRIST 337 

Matthew,  11,  28. — Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labour,  and  are  heavy  la- 
den, and  I  will  give  you  rest. 

SERMON  X.     W^ILLINGNESS  TO  DIE,  NO  EVIDENCE  OF  PREPAR- 
ATION FOR  DEATH 353 

//.  Corinthians,  5,  8. — We  are  confident,  I  say,  and  willing  rather  to  be 
absent  from  the  body,  and  to  be  present  with  the  Lord. 

SERMON  XI.  THE  HOPE  OF  MAN 367 

Job,  14,  19. — Thou  destroyest  the  hope  of  man. 

SERMON  XII.  FAITH 383 

Hebrews,  11,  1. — Faith  is  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for,  and  the  evi- 
dence of  things  not  seen. 

SERMON  Xni.  FORGETFULNESS  OF  GOD.         ...       401 

Jeremiah,  2,  32. — Can  a  maid  forget  her  ornaments,  or  a  bride  her  attire  i* 
Yet  my  people  have  forgotten  me  days  without  number. 

SERMON  XIV.       THE  KNOWLEDGE  POSSESSED  BF  SAINTS  IN 

HEAVEN 417 

Job,  8,  9. — For  we  are  but  of  yesterday,  and  know  nothing,  because  our 
days  upon  earth  are  a  shadow. 


MEIHOIR. 


HIEJ^OIR. 


Some  account  of  the  author  may  reasonably  be  expected 
to  accompany  this  volume.  The  materials  for  a  biography, 
such  as  his  friends  would  desire,  are  very  few.  No  diary  has 
been  found  among  his  writings,  and  most  that  can  be  collected 
from  himself  is  contained  in  the  few  letters  which  he  wrote 
to  his  friends.  Some  of  his  early  correspondents,  with  whom 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  exchanging  thoughts  most  freely,  are  re- 
moved from  the  earth,  and  the  letters  he  wrote  to  them  are 
not  to  be  obtained.  The  late  Solomon  M.  Allen,  professor 
in  Middlebury  College,  the  Rev.  Sylvester  Lamed,  who  died 
at  New-Orleans,  and  the  Rev.  Joseph  R.  Andrus,  who  died  in 
Africa,  were  among  the  number  of  his  early,  intimate  friends ; 
and  from  their  letters  to  him,  found  among  his  papers,  it  is 
evident  that  he  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  them,  to  which 
few,  and  perhaps  no  other  of  his  correspondents  have  been 
admitted.  The  materials  from  which  this  Biographical  Sketch 
is  taken,  are  a  letter  by  his  mother,  respecting  his  early  years, 
his  own  letters,  and  the  recollections  of  a  few  friends. 

Carlos  Wilcox  was  born  Oct.  22d,  1794,  at  Newport,  N. 
H.  His  father,  Mr.  Ebenezer  Wilcox,  was  the  son  of  Dea. 
Abel  Wilcox,  of  North  Killingworth,  Conn.  He  is  a  respect- 
able farmer,  attentive  to  his  duties,  and  distinguished  for  hab- 
its of  punctuaUty  and  order  in  the  management  of  his  concerns. 
The  original  name  of  his  mother  was  Thankful  Stevens,  daugh- 
ter of  Josiah  Stevens,  Esq.  of  Newport,  N.  H.,  for  a  number 

2 


10  MEMOIR. 

of  years  deacon  of  the  church  in  that  place.  He  was  after- 
wards licensed  to  preach,  and  employed  as  a  Missionary  on 
the  Isle  of  Shoals,  where  he  died.  His  daughter,  the  mother 
of  the  subject  of  this  memoir,  was  well  educated,  and  is  pos- 
sessed of  an  unusual  share  of  tenderness  of  feeling,  and  of  ma- 
ternal excellencies.  These  parents  are  both  pious ;  and  Car- 
los, their  first  born,  M'as  early  dedicated  to  God  in  baptism. 
The  care  of  his  education  in  his  early  years  devolved  prin- 
cipally on  his  mother.  The  following  account  of  his  childhood 
from  her  own  pen  may  be  read  with  interest.  "  As  soon  as  he 
began  to  talk,  I  began  to  teach  him  to  repeat  the  Lord's  prayer, 
the  Assembly's  Catechism,  and  devotional  Hymns.  He  was 
very  active,  and  appeared  much  dehghted  with  receiving  in- 
struction. He  early  showed  a  great  fondness  for  books. 
When  only  two  years  old  he  would  often  ask  me  to  instruct 
him.  When  I  was  engaged  in  necessaiy  domestic  avocations, 
and  informed  him  that  he  must  wait,  he  would  stay  by  me, 
or  follow  me  with  his  book  in  his  hand  until  he  had  repeated 
his  lesson.  The  winter  after  he  was  two  years  old,  while  sit- 
ting by  liis  father,  and  seeing  him  at  work,  after  watching  him 
a  considerable  time  in  silence,  with  great  earnestness  he  ex- 
claimed, '  Papa,  what  are  you  doing  ?  Making  all  tilings  out 
of  nothing  by  the  word  of  your  power  V  He  could  read  and 
spell  correctly  before  he  attended  any  school.  He  was 
healthy,  active,  persevering  m  every  thing  he  did,  whether  at 
his  lessons,  work,  or  amusement." 

When  he  was  about  four  years  of  age,  his  parents  remov- 
ed to  Orwell,  Vt.  where  they  still  reside,  and  sustain  with 
christian  resignation,  their  bereavement  of  a  son,  who  com- 
forted them  in  his  childhood,  and  by  his  affectionate  conduct, 
his  distinguished  talents  and  devotedness  to  the  cause  of  Christ, 
gave  indications  of  future  usefulness  most  cheering  to  the  pa- 
rental breast. 

The  subject  of  this  Memoir  was,  from  his  earliest  infancy, 
amiable  and  lovely,  dutiful  to  his  parents,  and  affectionate  to 
his  younger  brothers.  Among  his  first  efforts  in  the  school 
room  he  gave  indications  of  talents,  capable  of  making  rapid 


MEMOIR.  I'l 

progress  in  knowledge.  The  writer  of  this  Memoir  has 
heard  from  the  school  companions  of  Mr.  Wilcox,  anecdotes 
of  his  childhood,  when  the  little  stripling  took  and  retained  a 
station  at  the  head  of  the  school,  while  his  competitors  were 
far  his  superiors  in  age. 

Until  between  the  ninth  and  tenth  year  of  his  life,  he  had  a 
good  constitution,  and  was  unusually  active  and  efficient  in  af- 
fording that  assistance  to  his  father,  which  could  be  expected 
from  such  a  youth.  At  this  period  he  gave  himself  a  wound 
in  his  knee  with  an  axe,  which  was  followed  by  consequences 
felt  to  the  day  of  his  death.  By  taking  cold  in  his  wounded 
limb,  it  was  seized  with  a  violent  inflammation,  and  for  ma- 
ny months  his  pain  was  intense. 

During  the  months  and  years  of  suffering  that  succeeded, 
he  discovered  a  mildness  of  temper,  maturity  of  reflection, 
and  manliness  of  conduct,  which  made  lasting  impressions 
on  the  minds  of  those  who  saw  him  ;  and  one  of  his  physi- 
cians, though  he  saw  him  only  occasionally,  was  so  interested 
in  his  demeanour  and  in  the  nobleness  of  mind  which  he  ex- 
hibited, that  he  named  his  first  son  after  this  youth,  who  had 
so  won  his  affections.  Twenty  years  aftervvards,  though  he 
had  removed  into  the  western  country,  he  could  not  speak 
of  the  scene  which  passed  in  the  sick  room  of  that  httle  suf- 
erer,  without  deep  emotion.  There  was  something  so  marked 
in  his  temper  and  manners,  so  mature  and  judicious  in  his 
conversation  even  in  that  early  period  of  his  life,  that  time 
could  not  efface  the  impression  which  had  been  made. 

The  years  of  feebleness  which  followed,  he  spent  in  the 
pursuit  of  knowledge  ;  and  under  all  his  disadvantages,  he 
made  rapid  and  honourable  progress.  When  he  became 
able  by  the  use  of  crutches  to  make  his  way  to  the  school 
house,  though  often  with  extreme  suffering,  his  place  was 
generally  at  the  head  of  his  class. 

His  inability  to  perform  agricultural  labours,  and  his  attach- 
ment to  books,  which  disease  and  infirmity  rather  increased 
than  abated,  determined  his  father  to  assist  him  in  obtaining  a 
public  education.     When  between  twelve  and  thirteen  yeai's 


12  MEMOIR. 

of  age,  he  was  sent  to  an  Academy  at  Castleton,  where  he 
soon  took  among  youth,  who  had  enjoyed  the  best  privileges, 
the  same  place  that  he  had  taken  at  the  coniimon  school.  At 
fourteen,  he  acquitted  himself  with  honor  in  an  examination 
in  all  the  studies  which  were  required  for  admission  into  col- 
lege ;  and  but  for  his  youth  and  feeble  health,  would  have 
presented  himself  for  admission.  About  this  time  he  was 
afflicted  with  a  cough  and  a  hectic  fever,  which  in  the  opin- 
ion of  his  friends  threatened  his  speedy  dissolution  ;  but  in 
the  summer  following,  his  health  was  so  far  improved,  and  his 
desire  to  pursue  his  favourite  employment,  and  to  enter  col- 
lege, so  ardent,  that  his  parents  consented  to  allow  him  to  re- 
view his  preparatory  studies.  Accordingly,  in  September, 
previous  to  his  fifteenth  year,  he  was  received  a  member  of 
Middlebury  College. 

This  Institution  was  then  in  its  infancy,  but  there  was  a 
spirit  of  enterprise  in  its  officers  and  students,  which  rendered 
it  on  many  accounts  a  peculiarly  desirable  place  for  youth 
to  prepare  themselves  for  public  life.  It  was  favourable  to 
that  aspiring,  determined  perseverance,  by  which  self-made 
men  rise  above  those  who  rely  upon  the  celebrity  of  estab- 
lishments, libraries,  and  the  literary  renown  of  teachers. 
Here  was  nothing  to  foster  the  impression,  that  a  diploma 
would  be  a  passport  to  the  high  places  of  the  earth  ;  but  there 
was  a  consciousness,  that  reputation  must  stand  upon  indi- 
vidual enterprise  and  personal  character.  This  gave  an  in- 
dependence to  the  character  of  the  student,  and  in  the  pur- 
suit of  his  studies,  he  felt  that  the  reputation  of  a  youthful  col- 
lege was  to  be  raised  by  liis  own.  Such  was  the  principle  that 
operated  upon  the  minds  of  the  students  of  that  Institution, 
and  its  influence  on  them  was  similar  to  its  influence  on  the 
founders  of  our  republic.  They  were  roused  to  deeds  of  en- 
terprise, which  men  under  other  circumstances  rarely  at- 
tempt. 

While  a  member  of  College,  Mr.  Wilcox  distinguished  him- 
self in  all  the  branches  of  study,  but  excelled  principally  in  the 
languages  and  belles-lettres.      His  conduct  was  irreproach- 


MEMOIR. 


IS 


able,  and  though  his  constitution  was  very  delicate,  he  was 
never  willing  to  excuse  himself  from  a  lesson,  or  from  a  col- 
lege exercise.  Every  thing  was  performed  with  strict  punc- 
tuality, and  it  is  believed  that  while  he  was  a  member  of  col- 
lege, no  censure  was  ever  passed  upon  him.  Early  in  his 
collegiate  life,  his  composition  began  to  be  noticed  for  original- 
ity, neatness  of  expression,  purity  and  elevation  of  style. 
During  his  junior  year,  he  wrote  a  poem  and  pronounced  it 
at  a  public  exliibition.  This  was  among  the  first  efforts  in 
this  species  of  composition,  that  he  had  ever  submitted  to  the 
eye  of  any  of  his  friends. 

He  graduated  with  the  highest  honors  of  college,  and  in  a 
valedictory  oration  "  On  the  reputation  of  greatness  in  the 
cause  of  humanity,"  showed  himself  capable  of  writing  with 
distinguished  excellence.  He  begins  by  saying,  "  It  is  hum- 
bling to  the  pride  of  man,  to  know  that  when  he  dies  he 
may  be  mentioned  no  more.  The  heart  is  chilled  at  the  re- 
flection that  when  its  motion  ceases,  all  its  affections  may  be 
forgotten  ;  and  the  tongue  falters  to  own,  that  when  silenced 
in  the  grave,  its  accents  may  never  be  repeated.  It  would 
seem  then,  that  no  one  susceptible  of  the  blandishments  of 
fame,  no  one  alive  to  the  laudable  love  of  character,  could  rest 
contented  with  sporting  awhile  on  the  spot  which  gave  him 
birth,  and  then  disappearing  forever,  unknown  and  unlament- 
ed.  It  is  affectation  in  man  to  pretend  to  disregard  the  es- 
teem of  others.  Self-approbation  can  seldom  answer  the  de- 
mands of  vanity,  and  virtue  herself  may  taste  with  inward 
relish  the  honey  of  applause.  Respectability  in  life,  may  be 
gained  with  little  exertion,  and  friendship  is  often  purchased 
with  a  toy.  But  the  attention  of  the  community,  and  the  grat- 
itude of  ages,  can  be  won  only  by  vigorous,  and  unceasing 
activity." 

He  then  points  out  some  of  the  different  fields  in  which  the 
reputation  of  greatness  may  be  acquired,  and  concludes  with 
addresses  to  the  president  and  officers  of  the  college,  and 
to  his  classmates.  A  few  sentences  from  the  last,  are  so  char- 
acteristic that  they  may  be  interesting  to  the  reader. 


14 


MEMOIR. 


"  The  meeting  which  we  have  never  been  able  to  contem- 
plate without  emotion,  has  at  length  arrived.  That  moment, 
the  anticipation  of  which  has  so  embittered  the  draught  of 
enjoyment,  is  none  other  than  the  present.  Every  thing  be- 
speaks an  interesting  occasion.  Else,  why  such  nameless  ex- 
pressions in  the  countenance,  why  such  struggles  in  the  heart  ? 
Our  circles  Avere  not  wont  to  be  overcast  with  such  gloom. 
The  agonizing  solicitude  betrayed  in  each  feature,  witnesses 
that  this  is  a  crisis  of  no  common  moment.  In  one  word, 
and  that  big  with  meaning,  we  have  assembled  for  the  last 
time. 

"  It  would  seem  that  some  sequestered  grove  best  befitted 
a  scene  like  this.  There,  the  enthusiasm  of  grief  would  repine 
under  no  restraint.  There,  nothing  would  check  the  effu- 
sions of  the  heart.  Yet,  before  this  assembly,  the  event  lo- 
ses none  of  its  solemnity. 

"We  have  all  remarked,  that  the  traveller,  while  ascending  a 
hill,  is  generally  busied  in  anticipating  the  prospect  which 
the  brow  is  to  command.  He  sketches  a  valley  in  which  he 
crowds  together  the  epitome  of  every  grace.  In  the  back 
ground  of  his  picture,  he  draws  a  villa  with  romantic  environs. 
With  an  eye  pursuing  the  path  before  him,  eager  to  greet  the 
rising  spire,  he  hastens  to  the  summit.  But  his  scene,  so  love- 
ly, suddenly  shrinks  into  a  dreaiy  waste.  With  a  curiosity 
unabated,  he  speeds  his  way  over  the  barren  heath  to  the 
eminence  beyond  it.  Here  his  ideal  promises  meet  a  second 
failure.  Thus  he  follows  this  beauteous  phantom,  and  thus  it 
eludes  his  grasp. 

"  This,  my  brethren,  is  the  miniature  of  our  journey  through 
life.  We  have  reached  the  first  station  whence  the  world, 
deformed  as  it  is,  instead  of  the  comely  creation  of  fancy, 
opens  before  us.  Man  chases  some  favourite  show  to  the 
confines  of  the  grave.  He  plays  his  part  in  some  imaginary 
drama,  till  he  passes  from  the  theatre  of  life.  The  happiness 
of  to-day  is  to  dream  of  the  happiness  of  to-morrow. 

"  Yet  the  desert  would  be  smoothed  of  half  its  ruggedness, 
were  our  road  through  it  one  and  the  same.      But  we  are  now 


MEMOIR. 


at  the  centre,  whence  all  our  paths  proceed,  continually  diverg- 
ing. Were  the  ills  of  men  seven-fold,  were  every  tear  mul- 
tiplied without  end,  still  the  worst  could  be  endured  were  we 
not  to  be  separated. — There  is  an  hour  in  which  man  is  him- 
self, and  in  which  he  couples  himself  with  dearer  selves,  in 
which  he  holds  sweet  converse  with  those  that  are  far  away. 
It  is  the  midnight  watch  when  the  hum  of  day  hath  ceased, 
and  sleep  fallen  heavy  on  the  lids  of  mortals.  Then  shall  our 
spirits  be  commmgled,  and  scenes  long  past  be  revived.  What 
time  the  temple  of  nature  is  lit  up  for  her  nightly  orison,  our 
widowed  spirits  shall  pay  their  devotions  at  the  tomb  of  bu- 
ried joys. 

"  But  we  shall  soon  have  other  cause  to  mourn  than  mere 
separation.  Our  number  must  dwindle  away  by  death. 
Tidings  will  soon  reach  us  that  a  class-mate  is  gone.  The 
Grand  Archer  may  have  already  chosen  the  place  to  take  his 
aim.  Then  must  that  eye  so  vivid,  be  covered  with  an  im- 
pervious film.  Do  I  gaze  on  the  form  which  must  soon  be 
hid  under  the  clods  of  the  valley  ?  And  can  nothing  avail  ? 
No.  The  amenity  of  disposition,  the  fascination  of  address, 
never  won  the  king  of  terrors  from  his  cruel  purpose. 

"  Religion  may  rob  the  arrow  of  its  poison,  but  she  cannot 
evade  its  point.  Some  of  us  may  be  denied  the  sole  comfort 
of  dissolving  nature,  that  of  having  our  last  wants  relieved  by 
the  hand  of  a  brother.  Companions  of  my  youth,  ye  inmates 
of  my  soul,  how  gladly  would  I  fly  to  earth's  utmost  bounds 
to  cheer  the  dying  moments  of  one,  to  catch  his  last  breath, 
and  to  plant  the  wild  flower  on  his  tomb.  Should  it  be  my 
unhappy  lot  to  live  when  ye  were  all  dead,  I  would  visit  this 
village  and  mark  the  place  of  each  endearing  incident. 
While  watching  for  some  well  known  face,  I  should  weep  to 
see  none  but  strangers,  and  exclaiming,  the  world  is  to  me 
but  a  wilderness,  I  would  fall  asleep  to  wake  with  you  be- 
yond the  sky. 

"  'Tis  done,  'tis  done.  The  tumult  of  passion  is  now  a  drea- 
ry calm  ;  yonder  orb  of  day  is  shedding  his  last  beams  on  our 
collected  view ;  but  may  our  eternity  be  where  God  and  the 


16  MEMOIR. 

Lamb  are  the  light  thereof.  A  long  farewell  to  this  academic 
grove,  a  longer  farewell  to  you.  Yon  bell  shall  assemble  us 
no  more  ;  but,  O  remember,  our  next  meeting  will  be  at  the 
summons  of  the  last  trump,  to  rehearse  to  the  Judge  of  the 
Universe  the  long  lesson  of  life." 

It  was  soon  after  he  entered  college,  that  his  attention 
was  turned  to  the  subject  of  personal  religion.  His  native 
amiableness,  his  refined  and  delicate  feelings,  and  his  uniform- 
ly irreproachable  conduct,  had  been  such  as  might  have  seem- 
ed to  many,  satisfactory  evidence  that  he  needed  no  great 
change  ;  but  when  the  Spirit  of  God  visited  his  heart,  it  pro- 
duced the  same  impressions,  uniformly  produced  in  those  who 
are  led  to  Christ  and  fitted  for  heaven, — a  deep  sense  of  his 
own  sinfulness.  From  that  time  till  the  day  of  his  death,  he 
viewed  himself  a  helpless  sinner,  unworthy  of  any  favour, 
and  entirely  dependent  on  the  sovereign  grace  of  God.  The 
following  letter,  written  soon  after  this  change  in  his  feel- 
ings, contains  some  particulars  respecting  his  views  of  him- 
self and  of  divine  things. 

Middlehury,  Dec.  14,  1809. 
Honoured  Parents, 

It  is  with  a  heart  filled  with  gratitude  to  that  Being  who 
has  supported  my  life,  that  I  now  write  to  you.  It  will  un- 
doubtedly afford  you  some  consolation  to  hear  that  I  have 
some  hope  that  I  have  experienced  a  change  of  heart,  though 
I  am  not  without  many  doubts  and  fears,  lest  it  should  prove  a 
delusion.  But  I  will  relate  to  you  some  of  my  feeUngs. 
When  this  revival  first  began  in  Middlebury,  I  felt  somewhat 
opposed  to  it,  and  indeed,  I  thought  I  would  concern  myself 
nothing  about  it,  so  I  paid  little  regard  to  attending  confer- 
ences and  other  exercises  of  public  worship.  I  considered 
that  it  would  intrude  upon  my  classical  studies  at  college.  I 
felt  desirous  to  obtain  an  immense  stock  of  earthly  knowl- 
edge, and  my  heart  glowed  with  fei-vent  anxiety  for  worldly 
honours  and  emoluments.  But  alas,  they  last  but  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  vanish  away.     Though  I  sometimes  thought  of 


MEMOIR.  19' 

the  importance  of  striving  to  obtain  something  which  would 
exist  beyond  this  life,  as  I  knew  for  a  certainty  I  must  soon 
die  and  leave  all  my  earthly  knowledge,  yet  I  was  for  having 
a  more  convenient  opportunity.  "  Go  thy  way  for  this  time," 
was  the  language  of  my  impenitent  heart.  At  times,  I  suf- 
fered my  thoughts  to  roam  on  things  concerning  a  future 
state.  A  heaven  of  eternal  happiness,  and  a  hell  of  eternal 
misery,  would  often  be  the  subjects  of  my  serious  contempla- 
tion ;  and  though  I  had  no  sensible  alarm,  yet  sometimes  I 
thought  I  must  attend  to  religion  before  it  was  too  late.  At 
other  times,  I  thought  I  would  delay  repentance  until  old  age. 
"  I  heard  many  solemn  sermons,  and  very  many  warnings 
and  invitations,  but  rejected  them  all.  I  continued  in  this 
condition  until  Friday,  Dec.  1st,  when  I  thought  I  would 
leave  college  and  go  home.  Then  the  thought  rushed  into 
my  mind,  that  perhaps  I  was  going  directly  away  from  my 
eternal  salvation,  and  that  my  conduct  might  so  offend  a 
just  and  holy  God,  that  he  would  come  out  in  judgment 
against  me,  and  "swear  that  I  should  never  enter  into  his 
rest ;"  yet  this  thought  I  soon  shook  off,  resolving  to  go 
home,  provided  I  could  get  away.     Accordingly,  I  went  to 

Professor  H .     Scarce  had  I  made  my  errand  known 

to  him,  when  he  began  to  question  me  upon  the  subject  of 
religion.  He  asked  me  whether  I  had  attended  to  it  or  not. 
For  a  moment  I  stood  speechless,  thinking  what  reply  to  make. 
I  answered  him  in  the  negative.  He  then  conversed  with 
me  in  a  manner  so  affecting  to  my  feelings,  that  words  cannot 
express  it.  He  seemed  unwilling  to  let  me  go,  until  I  had  at- 
tended to  the  one  thing  needful.  He  proposed  to  let  me  re- 
turn home  in  a  fortnight,  if  I  would  inform  him  in  plain 
terms,  that  I  had  resolved  to  persist  in  the  ways  of  sin,  and  at 
last  go  down  to  destruction.  This  seemed  like  an  arrow 
that  pierced  into  the  very  recesses  of  my  soul.  I  returned  to 
my  room,  and  thought  that  from  that  time,  I  would  seek  for 
religion  with  an  intense  desire  to  obtain  it.  I  took  my  Bible 
and  turned  to  the  32d  chapter  of  Deuteronomy,  and  the  1st 
chapter  of  Proverbs.    I  thought  the  35th  verse  of  the  former, 

3 


18  MEMOIR. 

and  the  25th  of  the  latter,  applied  to  my  situation.  I  attend- 
ed a  religious  meeting  in  the  college  on  Saturday  evening, 
was  much  impressed  with  a  sense  of  my  own  guilt,  and  won- 
dered at  the  mercy  of  God  in  sparing  the  life  of  such  a  sinner 
as  I  was.  I  admired  that  God  had  not  cut  me  off,  and  assign- 
ed me  a  portion  among  devils  and  damned  spirits.  After  the 
meeting  was  closed,  I  went  into  a  class-mate's  room,  who  had 
recently  experienced  religion.  He  seeing  me  look  serious, 
said,  '  what  do  you  think  of  these  things  V  I  told  him  that 
it  seemed  to  me  the  revival  was  about  to  close,  and  I  was  to 
be  left.  He  conversed  with  me  awhile,  and  then  I  retired. 
I  attended  meeting  on  the  Sabbath,  and  a  conference  in  the 
evening,  at  the  Court-House.  On  Monday  evening,  I  at- 
tended a  meeting  of  youth,  at  a  dwelling  house  in  the  village. 
While  I  was  walking  to  it,  I  felt  so  impressed  with  a  sense  of 
sin,  it  seemed  like  a  burden,  and  I  could  hardly  support  my- 
self under  the  heavy  load.  When  I  entered  the  room  where 
the  meeting  was  held,  I  found  those  who  had  assembled,  were 
singing  praises  to  God.  I  wished  that  I  might  be  one  of  the 
happy  number.  I  was  sensible,  that  all  that  hindered  me 
from  it,  was  the  opposition  of  my  own  heart.  I  was  endeav- 
ouring to  do  something  to  merit  salvation.  This  I  found 
I  could  not  do.  The  meeting  was  attended  with  great  so- 
lemnity, such  as  I  never  before  witnessed.  After  the  close 
of  the  meeting,  some  of  the  students  accompanied  me  to  my 
room,  conversed  and  prayed  with  me,  but  I  was  so  over- 
whelmed with  grief  for  my  sin,  which  I  had  committed  against 
my  Maker,  that  I  scarcely  knew  what  was  passmg  around 
me.  Afterwards,  while  I  sat  musing  on  my  situation,  it  seem- 
ed plam  to  my  mind  that  life  and  death  were  set  before  me. 
On  the  one  hand,  Clu'ist  was  inviting  me  to  come  to  him 
that  I  might  have  hfe,  on  the  other,  the  devil  seemed  to  be 
tempting  me.  Late  at  night  I  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep. 
1  thought  I  could  exclaim,  '  The  sorrows  of  hell  compass- 
ed me  about.'  I  spent  the  greatest  part  of  the  night  in 
meditation  ;  sometimes  I  had  half  a  thought  to  give  up  the 
subject  and  think  no  more  about  it :  then  this  passage  came  to 


MEMOIR, 


10 


my  mind,  '  Remember  Lot's  wife.'  I  was  in  this  situation, 
musing  wiiat  it  was  best  to  do,  when  this  thought  occurred 
to  my  mind,  that  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  give  up  myself  into 
the  hands  of  God,  and  these  lines  expressed  my  feelings, 

*  Here  Lord  I  give  myself  away, 
'Tis  all  that  I  can  do.' 

I  felt  that  I  was  willing  to  surrender  myself  into  the  hands  of 
the  Saviour,  to  humble  myself  at  his  feet,  implore  his 
pardon  for  my  past  offences,  and  solicit  his  protection  for 
the  future.  I  arose  from  my  bed,  and  attended  prayers  in 
the  chapel  as  usual,  and  for  the  fost  time,  I  felt  a  heart  to 
pray.    My  burden  was  gone. 

"  I  have  enjoyed  myself  very  well  since,  only  I  have  had 
some  dark  hours,  fearing  lest  my  hope  was  not  founded  on  a 
rock.  I  believe  I  can  say  as  much  as  this,  that  every  thing 
appears  different  to  me  :  the  word  of  God,  religious  worship,  ~ 
christian  people,  religious  conferences,  and  prayer,  which 
before  appeared  to  be  gloomy,  now  appear  quite  the  reverse. 
It  now  seems  to  me  that  if  there  is  any  happiness  in  this  life, 
it  is  in  living  near  to  God.  I  have  tried  the  pleasures  and 
amusements  of  this  world,  and  found  them  vain.  There  are 
some  things  which  the  natural  heart  calls  happiness,  but  such 
as  always  leave  a  guilty  conscience.  I  think  I  can  enjoy 
more  happiness,  in  one  hour,  in  reading  my  Bible,  and  contem- 
plating the  character  of  God,  than  in  a  whole  Ufe  of  sirt 
and  rebellion  against  him." 

As  an  exhibition  of  his  ability  to  express  his  thoughts  in 
sentences,  this  letter  might  not  be  deemed  worthy  of  preser- 
vation ;  but  as  containing  his  own  views  of  himself,  and  of 
the  change  which  he  hoped  God  had  wrought  in  him,  it  will 
be  read  with  interest  by  all  who  value  the  exhibition  of  piety 
in  others,  or  are  conversant  with  their  own  hearts. 

From  this  time,  a  new  direction  was  given  to  his  mind,  and 
he  resolved  on  devoting  liimself  to  the  service  of  Christ,  in  the 
work  of  the  ministry.     After  leaving  college,   Mr.  Wilcox 


2^  MEMOIR. 

spent  part  of  a  year  in  Georgia,  with  a  maternal  uncle  :  he 
then  returned,  and  entered  upon  the  study  of  theology,  at  the 
Institution  in  Andover,  in  the  fall  of  181-1.  Through  the 
delicacy  of  his  health,  he  was  unable  during  the  severity  of 
the  w^inter  months,  to  attend  upon  some  of  the  public  exerci- 
ses, yet  he  never  neglected  preparation  for  any  of  the  requir- 
ed duties. 

In  the  spring  after  he  entered  the  Institution,  one  of  his 
classmates,*  a  very  interesting  and  lovely  youth,  sickened 
and  died.  His  class  made  choice  of  Mr.  Wilcox  to  deliver  an 
address  on  the  occasion,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  perform- 
ed this  office,  will  long  be  z-emembered  by  all  who  heard  him. 
The  tenderness  of  feeling  he  exhibited,  the  chaste  and  eleva- 
ted style  in  which  his  Eulogy  was  written,  and  the  eloquence 
with  which  it  was  pronounced,  were  such  as  to  make  it  man- 
ifest that  he  possessed  talents  of  superior  order.  While  a 
member  of  the  Institution,  he  had  seasons  of  suffering  from 
depression  of  spirits.  They  who  were  admitted  to  an  intima- 
cy with  him,  thought  much  less  of  his  dejection,  than  others 
who  only  knew  that  he  chose  to  be  retii-ed,  that  he  was  reserv- 
ed in  conversation,  and  tliat  the  features  of  his  face  often 
bespoke  something  preying  upon  his  mind.  But  when  he  was 
required  to  perform  any  duty  that  called  forth  his  talents, 
there  was  no  indication  of  neglect  in  his  studies,  or  want  of 
tone  and  strength  in  his  intellectual  powers.  Two  of  the  ex- 
ercises assigned  him  while  at  the  Seminary,  have  appeared 
in  the  Christian  Spectator.f 

But  the  fact  must  not  be  concealed,  that  he  really  suffered 
from  depression  of  spirits.  There  was  some  things  in  con- 
nexion with  these  sufferings,  eminently  illustrative  of  his  char- 
acter. While  a  member  of  college,  he  was  "  smit  with  the 
love  of  sacred  song,"  and  a  propensity  of  heart  more  dearly 
cherished  than  any  other,  was  to  serve  Christ  by  composing 
a  lofty  song  of  praise  to  him — "  Benevolence"  the  theme. 
He  ardently  desired  to  engage  in  writing  upon  this  favom-ite 

*Philanthropos  Perry, 
t  Vol.  I.  p.  613.     Vol.  II.  p.  404. 


MEMOIR.  5« 

subject,  as  an  employment  most  congenial  to  his  feelings ; 
but  there  were  formidable  obstacles  in  the  way.  He  was  in 
debt  to  nearly  the  whole  amount  of  his  college  bills.  They 
who  knew  his  trials  on  this  account,  have  had  seasons  of  de- 
pression too ;  they  have  mingled  tears,  when  they  thought 
how  much  his  delicate  mind  suffered,  at  times,  from  a  burden 
of  debt  which  he  saw  little  prospect  of  discharging,  while  a 
love  of  the  muses  led  him  to  cast  many  a  wistful  look  to 
wards  their  enchanting  bowers.  The  following  extract  from 
a  letter  written  by  him  in  a  season  of  dejection,  will  best  dis- 
close his  trials. 

"  I  dread  the  sight  of  my  pen  and  half  written  sermon. 
Sometimes  I  sit  for  whole  days  without  advancing  a  single  let- 
ter. I  sit  with  my  cheek  leaning  on  the  palm  of  my  hand,  and 
scarce  a  day  passes  in  which  I  do  not  weep — walk  my  room 
with  my  hands  clasped  in  anguish,  and  my  eyes  streaming 
with  tears — sit  for  hours  and  gaze  into  the  fire,  or  on  vacan- 
cy, or  out  of  the  window,  without  noticing  any  particular  ob- 
ject, or  having  any  particular  train  of  thought,  but  a  deep  feel- 
ing of  indescribable  wretchedness. 

"  I  have  such  a  disheartening  consciousness  of  mv  unfitness 
for  the  ministrj",  that  I  cannot  engage  in  it.  I  have  studied 
nothing  but  poetry,  am  fit  for  nothing  but  poetry. 

"  I  dare  not  look  at  the  setting  sun,  the  placid  and  beautiful 
moon,  the  mild  planet  of  the  west,  the  pure  blue  heavens,  the 
white  flying  clouds,  the  lofty  mountain  with  its  waving  for- 
ests, the  valley  with  its  green  meadows  and  crystal  streams  : — 
I  dare  not  listen  to  the  sweet  bird  that  comes  to  the  tree  be- 
fore my  window,  and  sings  from  the  fulness  of  its  heart,  pour- 
ing forth  a  stream  of  melody. 

"When  the  clouds  gather  round  and  shut  out  the  beauties  of 
the  natural  world,  especially  when  the  storm  rages,  and  beats 
against  my  window,  I  seem  ready  to  wish  that  they  would  re- 
main so  forever.  It  suits  the  gloom  of  my  soul,  I  feel  a  great 
relief,  a  burden  taken  off.  And  when  the  hour  of  sleep  comes, 
and  I  wrap  myself  up  in  the  drapery  of  my  couch,  I  am  al- 
most ready  to  wish  that  the  sleep  of  the  grave  had  come,  or 


22  MEMOIR. 

that  I  might  never  wake  again.  What  will  become  of  me  ? 
The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness. 

"  I  spend  my  days  in  sighing,  but  no  sigh  heaves  off  its  load 
from  this  o'erburdened  breast. 

"My  mind  is  unstrung,  relaxed  till  it  has  almost  lost  the  pow- 
er of  reaction  ;  every  little  labour,  seems  an  Herculean  task, 
every  little  obstacle,  a  mountain  of  difficulty.  I  have  lost  all 
self-controul,  all  discipline  of  the  thoughts  and  affections,  and 
become  the  passive  slave  of  circumstances.  I  feel  borne 
along  in  despairing  listlessness,  conforming  to  the  current  in 
all  its  windings,  and  varieties  of  motion,  without  resolution 
enough  to  raise  my  head,  and  look  about  me,  and  see  where  I 
am  ;  or  forward,  to  see  whither  I  am  going  ;  the  roaring  of 
a  cataract  before  me,  would  rather  lull  me  to  a  deeper  sleep, 
than  rouse  me  to  a  mighty  effort  for  my  escape  from  destruc- 
tion." 

This  extract  exhibits,  at  least,  one  of  the  causes  of  the  con- 
flict which  was  passing  in  his  mind,  when  to  his  friends,  he  was 
so  evidently  the  subject  of  exquisite  suffering.  To  those  who 
are  mere  spectators  of  such  a  conflict  as  is  rendered  visible  in 
the  countenance,  it  undoubtedly  appears  a  mark  of  imbecility ; 
but  they  may  be  incompetent  judges  in  such  a  case.  They, 
whose  thoughts  always  flow  in  dull  prose,  know  not  the  move- 
ments of  a  mind,  under  the  conduct  of  the  muse.  One  who 
had  poetic  reveries,  and  seasons  of  exquisite  feeling,  in  which 
only  the  initiated  can  sympathize,  but  who  was  an  entire 
stranger  to  that  sweet  rest  of  the  soul  which  Mr.  Wilcox  en- 
joyed, has  expressed  something  of  this  internal  anguish,  not 
indeed  in  his  finest  strains  of  poetry,  yet  in  language  which 
poets  can  understand. 

"  When  from  the  heart  where  sorrow  sits, 
Her  dusky  shadow  mounts  too  high, 
And  o'er  the  changing  aspect  flits, 
In  clouds  that  darken  all  the  sky. 
Heed  not  the  gloom  ;  they  soon  shall  sink  ; 
My  thoughts  their  dungeon  know  too  well, 


MEMOIR.  23 

Back  to  my  breast  the  captives  shrink, 
And  bleed  within  their  silent  cell." 

While  at  the  Institution,  as  divine  truth  was  unfolded  to 
his  mind,  Mr.  Wilcox  had  eminent  christian  enjoyment,  inter- 
mingled with  hours  of  conflict  between  his  own  inclination, 
and  the  advice  of  others. 

His  inclination  was  very  strong  to  devote  himself  to  the  ser- 
vice of  Christ,  in  writing  poetry.  The  friends  to  whom  he 
disclosed  his  feelings,  were  almost  unanimous  in  the  opinion, 
that  the  cultivation  of  fine  writing  should  be  subordinate  to  his 
greater  object,  the  work  of  the  ministry.  One,  whose  judg- 
ment he  highly  valued,  and  whose  early  death  he  deeply 
felt,  wrote  to  him  as  follows  :  "  I  have  no  objections  to  your 
drinking  occasionally  at  the  fount  of  Hehcon,  but  I  have 
great  fears  that  you  will  tumble  in  and  be  drowned." 

Such  were  some  of  his  sufferings,  and  such  the  causes  ;  but 
there  is  evidence  that  the  soul  had  found  its  rest  and  was  com- 
forted, as  may  be  learned  from  the  following  letters. 

Andover,  March  22d,  1815. 
Dear  Parents, 

Your  letter  surprised  as  well  as  affected  me,  beyond  any 
thing  I  ever  experienced.  What !  were  all  the  family  awa- 
ked from  sleep  with  the  expectation  of  seeing  my  beloved 
Mother  breathe  her  last,  and  I  still  in  bed  !  O  who  can  suffi- 
ciently admire  that  hand  which  restored  you  ?  Affliction  is  not 
sent  in  vain.  O  the  happiness  of  that  soul,  which  has  a  refuge 
in  the  hour  of  death  !  The  world  is  poor  indeed,  for  it  cannot 
purchase  a  moment  of  comfort,  when  comfort  is  most  needed. 
"  If  I  should  not  visit  Orwell  within  two  or  three  years,  I 
must  expect  to  see  it  sadly  changed  ;  many  will  be  born,  and 
many  die.  Gray  hairs  will  drop  away ;  blooming  youth  will 
fade.  Many  faces  I  shall  not  see  again,  till  I  meet  them 
at  the  dread  judgment-day.  Who  knows,  but  one  of  my  dear 
parents,  or  brothers,  may  be  of  the  number.  Let  us  trust  in 
God,  and  then  all  will  be  well. 


u 


MEMOIR. 


"  My  health  is  extremely  good.  You  never  saw  me  as 
fleshy  and  ruddy  as  I  am  now.  This  I  attribute  to  the  mode- 
rate weather  of  past  March,  and  likewise  to  my  regular 
hours  of  exercise.  Two  or  three  times  in  the  day  I  am  in 
a  washing  sweat,  and  it  would  do  you  good  to  see  me  then. 
I  am  told  by  my  fellow-students,  that  I  have  grown  fleshy 
remarkably  fast  within  a  month ;  and  indeed  I  take  some 
pleasure  in  looking  at  my  face  in  a  mirror,  but  I  often  check 
myself,  with  the  thought  that  health  is  a  vain  thing  for  secu- 
rity. 

"  I  am  delighted  with  the  study  of  the  Hebrew  language. 
My  class  recite  one  day  in  Hebrew,  and  the  next  in  Greek. 
Thus,  we  are  reading  the  Bible  in  the  words  in  which  it  was 
written.  Oh  !  there  is  no  book  like  the  Bible  !  I  am  now 
reading  the  Psalms  in  Hebrew,  and  they  are  most  sublime 
and  beautiful, 

"In  the  following  letter,  is  an  exhibition  of  his  fraternal  affec- 
tion. 

Andover,  August  17, 1815. 

Horace,  My  Dear  Little  Brother, 

"I  thank  you,  that  you  remember  brother  Carlos,  though  he 
has  been  gone  a  long  time,  and  a  great  way  off".  Alonzo,  and 
Seneca  and  Stevens  remember  me  too,  1  hope,  though  they 
do  not  or  cannot  write  to  me.  I  wish  I  could  send  you  and 
my  other  little  brothers,  some  more  good  books.  But  you 
must  read  those  I  sent  to  you,  a  great  many  times  ;  and  you 
must  pray  to  God,  that  He  will  make  them  do  you  much  good, 
make  you  love  him  and  obey  all  his  commandments.  You 
must  mind  your  parents,  and  love  them,  for  they  love  you,  and 
work  hard  all  the  time  for  you.  You  must  read  the  Bible  of- 
ten, and  ask  your  mother  to  tell  you  what  you  cannot  under- 
stand. When  you  say  the  catechism,  you  must  ask  what  it 
means,  if  you  do  not  know.  When  I  was  a  little  boy,  I  used 
sometimes  to  dread  the  time  when  I  was  to  say  the  catechism. 
Now  I  am  very  sorry  ;  and  if  you  should  live  to  be  as  old  as 
I  am,  you  will  be  sorry  if  you  do  not  love  to  say  the  catechism. 


MEMOIR.  25 

You  must  not  play  on  the  Sabbath,  you  must  not  look  out  of 
the  window  and  be  glad  when  the  sun  is  down,  that  you  may 
play.  God  will  see  you,  and  be  very  angry  with  you  and  all 
little  boys,  who  do  not  love  the  Sabbath,  and  the  Bible,  and  the 
catechism,  and  other  good  books,  and  their  parents,  and  all 
good  people.  When  you  go  to  meeting,  you  must  look  at 
the  minister  and  mind  all  he  says.  There  is  a  pretty,  lovely 
boy  here,  about  as  old  as  Stevens,  who  always  looks  at  the 
minister,  and  when  he  comes  home,  can  tell  a  great  deal  of 
what  he  said.     Good  bye,  Horace. 

Carlos. 

Dear  Parents,  Andover,  March  14, 1816. 

I  have  received  your  letter  and  the  money.  I  have  much 
to  write  in  answer,  for  my  heart  is  full.  Whence  have  I  de- 
served such  kindness  ?  Surely,  if  we  did  but  know  it,  we 
have  no  friends  on  earth  like  our  parents.  You  heard  that  I 
was  unwell :  I  am  not ;  I  have  had  the  best  health  all  win- 
ter. Every  day  I  work  an  hour  and  a  half  at  the  wood-pile, 
and  walk  half  an  hour  besides.  I  never  touch  a  book  after 
breakfast,  until  I  have  laboured  an  hour  ;  so  that  the  sweat 
runs  off  my  face.  Thus  by  exercise,  my  constitution  is  re- 
newed. So  my  dear  father  always  told  me,  but  like  many 
other  of  liis  precepts,  I  little  regarded  it. 

You  say  you  have  heard  that  I  was  dejected  for  want  of  mon- 
ey, &c.  True,  I  have  not  been  very  high  in  spirits  for  some  time, 
but  the  want  of  money  is  but  a  very  small  part  of  the  cause.  I 
have  not  been  suffering  for  want  of  any  thing.  I  have  learnt 
a  few  things  since  I  came  to  Andover,  about  the  real  value 
of  money.  In  a  letter  from  my  mother,  written  last  spring, 
soon  after  the  sickness  of  herself  and  my  brother,  she  says — 
*'  Your  honoured  father  is  almost  worn  out  with  cares  and 
hard  labour." — This  went  to  my  heart.  "  Worn  out  with 
hard  labour" — thought  I,  and  for  whom  ?  for  me,  me  who 
never  earned  a  cent  for  myself,  and  who  am  now  living  in 
ease,  upon  that  property,  which  he  has  gained  by  a  long 
course  of  industry  and  economy.     The  idea,  that  probably 

4 


36 


MEMOIR. 


my  dear  father's  days  might  be  shortened  by  his  exertions  to 
support  his  children,  and  me  in  particular,  who  had  been  of 
less  service  to  him,  than  any  of  them,  sunk  deep  into  my 
heart,  and  I  have  constantly  kept  it  in  mind  since.  It  was 
then,  I  formed  the  resolution  never  to  ask  him  for  another 
cent  of  that  property,  which  ought  to  be  preserved  to  sup- 
port my  parents  in  the  decline  of  life,  and  to  train  up  the 
younger  children.  I  am  now,  thought  I,  better  able  to  sup- 
port myself,  than  my  parents  are  to  support  me — why  should 
I  trespass  any  more  on  their  goodness  ?  The  money  you 
have  now  so  kindly  sent  me,  I  thank  you  for,  and  I  wish  to  con- 
sider it  as  borrowed. 

With  regard  to  my  support  at  this  excellent  Seminary,  I 
can  speak  freely,  and  to  your  satisfaction.  My  board  and 
washing  bills,  are  paid  out  of  the  funds.  Wood,  candles,  &c. 
we  all  have  to  find  for  ourselves.  There  is  a  society  of  la- 
dies in  Boston,  who  furnish  poor  students  with  all  the  clothes 
they  wish.  And  should  I  barely  send  in  my  name,  and  a 
list  of  the  articles  I  wanted,  I  might  have  any  thing  free. 
But  though  I  have  been  urged  to  do  it,  I  have  not  ;  for  when 
I  see  so  many  around  me,  more  needy  than  I,  and  far  more 
likely  to  be  useful  ministers,  I  have  not  had  the  face  to  do  it. 
The  bare  possibility,  that  I  may  not  answer  the  expectations 
of  benefactors,  is  more  than  I  wish  to  endure.  *  *  *  I  have 
no  thought  of  leaving  the  Seminary,  unless  I  should  be  sick, 
or  some  other  reason  persuade  than  want  of  support. 

The  office  of  the  ministry,  looks  too  arduous  and  too  sa- 
cred for  me.  Since  I  have  been  here,  I  have  learned  some 
of  the  trials  and  duties  of  a  faithful  minister.  From  these,  I 
seem  to  shrink,  and  dread  the  responsibility  of  the  station. 
I  begin  to  find,  that  a  minister  has  something  more  to  do, 
than  merely  to  enter  the  pulpit  and  pronounce  a  fine  ser- 
mon. He  is  to  watch  and  labour  for  souls  in  private,  as  well 
as  in  public  ;  to  have  an  answer  for  every  question  of  infi- 
del effrontery,  or  inquiring  penitence.  He  is  to  look  after 
the  strayed  ones  of  the  flock  ;  to  bind  up  the  wounded,  &c. 
Is  he  to  do  all  this,  or  is  it  God  through  him  ? 


MEMOIR. 


J87 


Besides,  it  rings  in  my  ears  every  day,  that  a  man  is  not 
fit  to  be  the  spiritual  guide  of  others,  unless  he  be  eminently 
pious  himself.  I  dare  not  claim  this  character  of  eminent 
piety.  No,  I  dare  not,  I  have  rather  to  fear  and  tremble, 
lest  I  have  no  piety  at  all.  What  then  shall  I  do  ?  How- 
can  I  do  the  most  good  ?  Heaven  direct  me.  I  would 
rather  remain  in  a  private,  humble  sphere,  and  do  little  good, 
than  appear  in  public,  and  do  much  harm.  It  is  my  con- 
stant prayer,  that  I  may  be  led  in  the  path  of  duty.  I  hope 
it  will  be  yours  also,  my  dear  parents. 

I  have  many,  very  many  melancholy  hours,  in  meditating 
on  this  subject.  I  can  never  be  sufficiently  thankful  for  the 
blessing  o{  pious  parents.  Little  children  are  apt  to  think  it 
hard  for  parents  to  be  always  instructing  them  in  religion, 
and  restraining  them  from  vanities  ;  but  when  they  come  to 
maturity,  they  will  look  back  cmd  bless  them. 

Andover,  May  30,  1816. 

My  Dear  Mother, 

You  have  been  sick  again  it  seems.  I  tremble  when  I 
think  of  your  feeble  health  and  my  great  distance  from  you. 
I  may  not  even  have  time  to  hear  that  you  are  sick,  before  I 
hear  that  you  are  gone.  I  cannot  come  home  in  a  moment, 
but  if  you,  or  my  dear  father,  should  be  dangerously  sick,  I 
beg  that  you  will  let  me  know  immediately,  that  I  may  fly 
to  your  arms  with  all  possible  speed.  May  heaven  prepare 
us  for  the  day  of  affliction,  for  come  it  must,  sooner  or  later. 
Were  there  no  hope  of  meeting  friends  in  a  happier  world, 
I  could  almost  wish  to  have  no  friends  in  this  ;  for  the  bit- 
terness of  separation,  and  that  forever,  would  be  so  much 
the  more  severe,  as  the  friendship  was  more  ardent. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  direct  evidence  from  the  scriptures, 
that  friends  will  know  each  other  in  heaven,  but  there  are 
circumstances,  which  render  it  in  the  highest  degree  proba- 
ble. The  rich  man  in  the  parable  is  represented  as  knowing 
Lazarus  and  Abraham ;  and  surely  if  the  inhabitants  of  the 
two  states  have  knowledge  of  each  other,  those  of  each  state 


28 


MEMOIR. 


separately  may  be  supposed  to  know  each  other.  We  are 
naturally  led  by  reason,  to  think  that  much  of  the  misery  of  the 
wicked,  will  consist  in  mutual  accusations — that  the  unfaithful 
parent  will  writhe  with  keenest  anguish  when  reproached  by 
the  child  as  the  author  of  his  ruin — that  the  ungodly  minister 
will  feel  the  sharpest  stings  of  remorse  when  his  people  shall 
rail  at  liim  as  the  cause  of  their  undoing.  And  if  this  be  so, 
why  may  not  much  of  the  happiness  of  the  blessed,  consist  in 
recounting  the  many  instances  of  faithfulness  in  each  other  ? 
the  child  thank  the  parent  for  his  godly  example  and  pious 
instructions  ?  the  church  welcome  their  pastor  and  bid  him 
rejoice  in  the  fruit  of  all  his  labours  of  love  ?  How  could 
such  employment  be  inconsistent  with  God's  being  all  in  all. 

My  health  is  excellent.  I  suppose  you  will  think  so,  when 
I  tell  you  that  I  walk  ten  miles  every  day,  as  steadily  as  the 
day  comes.  Four  weeks  of  our  six  weeks'  vacation  have 
expired.  I  room  at  College  and  board  one  mile  and  a  half 
off ;  and  I  go  and  return  at  every  meal,  which  makes  nine 
miles.  I  visit  the  post-office,  or  the  mineral  spring  we  have 
here,  once  a  day,  which  makes  more  than  another  mile.  In- 
stead of  feeling  fatigued,  I  grow  stronger  and  stronger,  so 
that  I  verily  believe  I  could  walk  home,  after  practising  upon 
this  plan  a  number  of  months. 

I  long  to  see  you  all,  and  to  enjoy  again  those  pleasures 
that  I  found  in  rambling  over  your  lovely  farm.  Believe 
me,  you  have  a  happy  spot — a  spot  where  I  could  almost 
wish  to  spend  my  days.  The  great  and  noisy  world,  you 
only  hear  about  at  a  distance.  You  know  little  of  the  trials 
and  temptations  of  public  life.  You  have  the  Bible — you 
have  the  preaching  of  its  holy  truths — you  have  kind  and 
pious  friends  and  neighbours,  and  what  more  could  you  ex- 
pect in  this  vale  of  tears  ?  1  almost,  I  do  quite  envy  you  the 
happiness  of  a  retired  life — a  public  station  has  no  charms 
for  your  Carlos. 


MEMOIR.  29 

Andover,  August  5,  1816. 
My  Dear  Parents, 

i  have  been  considerably  unwell  for  a  week  or  two,  and 
have  about  concluded  that  it  is  best  for  me  to  comply  with 
your  request  made  last  spring,  when  you  heard  that  I  was 
"depressed"  and  "outof  heahh  ;"  that  is  to  come  home.  Our 
present  ferm  is  fast  drawing  to  a  close,  six  weeks  only  re- 
maining ;  then  comes  a  vacation  of  six  weeks.  The  ex- 
pense of  a  journey  home  on  horseback  will  be  very 
little  more  than  the  expense  of  residing  here.  A  jour- 
ney on  horseback  (if  I  can  sit  on  a  horse,  for  I  have 
hardly  tried  since  I  left  home)  will  be  the  very  best  thing  for 
my  health  and  spirits.  Say,  my  beloved  Parents,  shall  I 
again  find  a  home  under  your  generous  roof  .^^  Can  I  doubt 
it  ?  I  feel  like  a  pilgrim  and  a  stranger  on  the  earth  ;  and 
am  sometimes  ready,  almost,  to  lay  me  down  and  die. 

I  want  very  much  to  see  my  little  brothers.  I  think  1 
should  delight  to  teach  their  young  and  tender  minds  to  love 
their  Creator  and  Redeemer ;  to  pray  to  him  morning  and 
evening ;  to  love  their  Parents  and  obey  them  in  all  things. 
I  thank  you,  my  Parents,  a  thousand  times,  for  the  religious 
instruction  you  gave  me  in  childhood.  It  will  never  be  for- 
gotten. One  of  the  most  wicked  and  abandoned  men  in  our 
country,  has  been  known  to  observe  that  had  it  not  been  for 
the  religious  principles  instilled  into  his  mind  by  his  father, 
he  should  have  been  a  downright  atheist.  Of  so  much  im- 
portance is  early  instruction.  How  ought  I  to  bless  my  God 
for  pious  parents.  But  I  have  reason  to  lament  that  I  so 
misimproved  these  blessings.  What  have  you  seen,  what 
has  any  body  seen  in  my  life,  since  I  professed  to  love  God 
supremely,  that  gave  any  evidence  of  my  sincerity  ?  I  may 
yet  be  deceived.  "  Ye  shall  know  them  by  their  fruits,"  says 
the  blessed  Saviour.  Where  are  my  fruits  ?  All  my  hope 
must  be  in  the  atonement  of  Christ.  "  Other  refuge  have  J 
none." 

If  I  come  home,  I  shall  probably  see  you  the  last  of  next 
week.     Do  not  expect  me  very  strongly,  for  I  may  possibly, 


30 


MEMOIR. 


after  all,  be  disappointed  in  my  plan.  If  T  do  not  come,  then, 
you  must  not  conclude  me  sick  till  you  hear  from  me.  I 
think  I  derive  consolation  from  the  reflection  that  you  are 
daily  praying  for  me  ;  and  I  am  never  on  my  knees  without 
praying  that  you  may  live  to  see  your  prayers  answered. 
Farewell.    Conclude  me  safe,  whether  at  home  or  abroad. 

Carlos. 

Andover,  June  21,  1817. 

Honoured  and  Dear  Parents, 

You  will  doubtless  be  surprised  to  see  that  I  am  again  at 
Andover.  I  hasten  to  let  you  know  the  reasons  and  to  give 
some  account  of  my  vacation.  You  already  know  the  cause 
of  my  going  to  Connecticut.  I  spent  three  or  four  weeks 
with  our  friends  in  North  Killingworth.  A  class-mate  of 
mine  came  to  Killingworth,  and  insisted  on  my  spending  a 
few  weeks  with  him  at  his  mother's  house  in  Saybrook.  I 
stayed  with  him  till  the  close  of  the  vacation,  the  twelfth  of 
this  month. 

By  giving  up  study  entirely,  and  passing  the  whole  time  in 
bodily  exercise,  I  recovered  my  health  so  far  as  to  deem  it  ex- 
pedient to  return  to  this  place,  and  try  to  stand  it  this  sum- 
mer. I  may  be  disappointed  ;  for  my  complaint  has  fre- 
quently disappeared  during  a  vacation  of  activity,  but  return- 
ed with  double  violence  upon  being  again  shut  up  in  a  study. 
How  it  will  be  now,  time  only  can  determine.  I  am  at  pres- 
ent hardly  fit  for  study,  being  very  poor  in  flesh,  and  troubled 
with  pain  in  my  breast.  Indeed  I  have  long  been  convinced 
that  hard  study  will  never  agree  with  my  constitution.  Look 
at  my  health  since  I  first  went  to  Castleton  Academy.  How 
often  have  I  been  apparently  near  the  consumption  with  a 
cough.  Every  cold  that  I  take,  unless  peculiar  care  be  taken, 
will,  as  long  as  I  am  unhardened  by  exercise  and  constant  ac- 
tivity, endanger  my  life.  If  I  should  enter  the  ministry,  un- 
less my  constitution  should  first  undergo  a  great  and  radical 
change,  I  should  not  expect  to  live  many  years.  My  dear 
Parents,  I  had  no  idea  of  the  labour  of  writing  sermons  until 


MEMOIR,  31 

very  lately.  To  write  one  sermon  in  a  week  is  here  thought 
to  be  doing  extremely  well.  It  would  require  harder  study 
than  I  have  been  accustomed  to,  and  than  my  present  health 
would  endure,  to  write,  in  one  week  such  a  sermon  as  would  be 
expected  from  one  who  has  enjoyed  my  advantages.  I  have 
seen  so  many  lamentable  effects  from  the  bad  health  of  clergy- 
men,that  I  dread  them.  I  willgive  you  one  example  that  I  have 
seen  this  vacation.  An  excellent  minister  has  a  weak  consti- 
tution, and  is  subject  to  many  complaints  that  keep  him  al- 
most constantly  indisposed.  After  hard  labour  in  writing  his 
sermons  during  the  week,  frequently,  on  the  Sabbath,  his 
health  is  so  poor  that  he  cannot  preach  more  than  half  of  the 
day.  Monday  morning  he  is  seen  riding  out  for  his  health. 
His  people  who  are  at  work  by  the  way-side,  say,  "  Ah  !  he  is 
well  enough  to  ride  out  and  take  his  ease  ;  but  he  cannot 
preach — a  fine  story,  &c."  They  think  him  not  worthy  of  his 
hire  ;  and  instead  of  treating  him  with  tenderness  and  sympa- 
thy, even  the  members  of  his  church  talk  together  about  him 
as  though  he  were  to  be  blamed — as  though  his  sickness  were 
all  a  whim,  or  a  fit  of  spleen.  In  short,  a  minister  must  preach 
if  he  is  able  to  be  off  his  bed,  or  be  charged  with  neglect  of 
duty.  Such  treatment  would  throw  a  person  of  my  feelino-s 
into  the  lowest  state  of  dejection — it  would  kill  me  outright. 
I  cannot  think  of  it  without  tears.  Several  students  who 
have  completed  their  studies  at  this  Seminary,  have  not  ven- 
tured to  take  upon  them  the  arduous  work,  the  immense 
and  responsible  charge  of  the  minister  and  pastor  of  a  peo- 
ple, on  account  of  their  feeble  health ;  but  have  conscien- 
tiously gone  into  some  other  more  active  employment. 

I  make  these  remarks  with  no  direct  reference  to  my  case 
at  present,  but  only  to  prepare  your  minds  for  what  mio-ht 
happen.  I  think  if  I  know  my  own  heart,  that  I  desire  to 
hve  to  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  good  of  my  fellow  men. 
I  wish  to  keep  in  mind  the  day  of  death  and  the  awful 
scenes  of  eternity.  What  is  there  worth  living  for  but  reli- 
gion ! 

It  is  my  present   intention,   if  Providence  permit,   to  stay 


32  MEMOIR. 

here  my  time  out,  till  the  last  of  September  ;    and  to  make 
a  trial  at  preaching  as  the  Professors  advise  me. 

What  destruction  has  death  made  in  Orwell  since  I  left 
it.  I  expect  to  have  a  solemn  time  if  I  ever  live  to  enter 
your  meeting  house  again.  May  God  preserve  my  dear 
Parents  and  brothers,  or  prepare  them  for  death.     Your 

Carlos. 

When  Mr.  Wilcox  appeared  before  the  public  as  a  preach- 
er, the  expectations  of  those  who  had  enjoyed  the  opportu- 
nity to  appreciate  his  talents,  were  fully  realized  ;  and  they 
who  had  viewed  him  as  subject  to  melancholy,  and  had  form- 
ed their  opmion  from  his  enfeebled  bodily  constitution,  were 
surprised  at  the  elevated  stand  which  he  was  enabled  to  take 
and  maintain.  In  his  sermons  a  classic  purity  of  style  was 
conspicuous.  His  thoughts  were  mature  and  elevated, 
adorned  with  elegance  of  diction,  and  in  the  delivery  pro- 
nounced with  eloquence.  In  his  highest  flights,  no  hearer 
was  ever  startled  with  a  harsh  or  unintelligible  word.  Some 
passages  may  be  faulty  from  a  redundancy  of  words,  and  an 
exuberance  of  epithets,  but  w^hen  they  were  delivered,  the 
hearers  had  rather  the  impression,  that  the  mind  by  which 
they  were  composed,  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  rich 
thoughts  and  sweet  expressions,  than  labouring  to  attain 
them.  These  characteristics  of  his  early  attempts  in  wai- 
ting sermons  and  in  preaching,  did  not  vary  essentially  from 
those  of  his  last.  They  were  filled  with  poetic  thoughts,  yet 
the  expressions  and  the  collocation  of  words,  were  always 
pure  and  chaste  prose ;  and  if  any  appearance  of  eftbrt  is 
discernible  in  his  composition,  it  is  to  come  down  from  the 
poetic  elevation  in  w  hich  his  thoughts  most  naturally  soared, 
and  speak  wdth  the  simplicity  of  a  child  in  plain  prose. 

It  should  however,  be  added,  that  it  is  not  in  the  beauties 
of  fine  writing,  that  the  chief  merit  of  his  sermons  consists. 
They  are  plain  and  impressive  exhibitions  of  the  great  truths 
of  the  gospel,  and  appeal  to  the  conscience  and  the  heart. 

After  having  finished   the   regular  course  of  Theological 


MEMOIR.  63 

studies  at  Andover,  he  chose  to  prolong  his  residence  for  a 
few  months  at  that  favoured  place.  In  the  spring  of  1818, 
he  returned  to  his  father's  house,  where  he  spent  a  year.  It 
was  during  tliis  period,  that  he  laid  his  plan  for  a  Poem  enti- 
tled the  "  Age  of  Benevolence."  At  the  expiration  of  the 
year,  his  health  being  improved,  he  commenced  preaching, 
and  continued  for  about  twelve  months,  failing  scarcely  a 
Sabbath.  The  first  three  months,  he  preached  in  Pittstown, 
N.  Y.  performing  the  various  duties  of  a  clergyman  with 
great  acceptance.  He  then  visited  the  western  part  of  Con- 
necticut, and  preached  in  the  towns  of  Huntington,  New- 
Stratford  Society^,  now  Monroe,  Newtown  and  Norwalk. 

Extracts  from  some  of  his  letters,  written  during  this  pe- 
riod, are  submitted  to  the  public. 

New-Stratford,  in  Huntington,  Sept.  24,  1819. 

Having  wandered  from  place  to  place  without  letters  of 
introduction  and  without  friends,  in  search  of  employment, 
till  I  had  spent  almost  my  last  cent  of  money,  I  was  under 
the  necessity  of  stopping  and  of  denying  myself  the  pleasure 
of  attending  commencement.  You  recollect  your  promise 
of  writing  me  at  New-Haven,  by  that  time.  I  requested  a 
man  from  this  town,  who  went  to  that  place  on  the  day  after 
Commencement,  to  enquire  at  the  Post-Office  for  letters. 
No  letter  there.  The  week  following,  I  sent  again  and  re- 
ceived the  same  intelligence.  I  conclude  therefore  if  you 
wrote  at  all,  you  must  have  written  by  some  person  who  ex- 
pected to  see  me  in  N.  Haven.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  have 
not  heard  a  whisper  directly  or  indirectly  from    you  since  I 

left  S .     Nor  do  I  expect  to   hear   now   till   you  know 

where  I  am.  To  give  you  this  information  is  the  object  for 
which  I  have  taken  up  my  pen ;  but  since  I  have  a  large 
sheet  before  me,  I  may  as  well  blot  it  over  with  something, 
as  make  you  pay  postage  for  white  paper. 

After  I  parted  with  you  at  the  division  of  the  roads,  the 
burden  which  I  had  felt  all  the  morning,  in  consequence  of 
being  obliged  once  more  to  sally  forth  without  any  particular  des« 

5 


34  MEMOIR. 

tination,  and  without  any  letter  of  recommendation  or  introduc- 
tion, literally  to  seek  my  fortune,  was  soon  removed  by  that 
freedom  from  all  restraint,  which  being  left  on  a  sudden  to 
one's  self  gives  to  the  bosom  swelling  with  feelings  long  re- 
pressed. When  I  had  got  off  my  horse  at  a  shaded  rock  by 
the  way-side,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  place  of  our 
parting,  and  given  myself  up  to  the  luxury  of  weeping  a  while 
over  my  situation,  I  then  mounted  again  and  rode  on,  as  con- 
tented and  happy  as  if  my  way  was  clear  before  me. 

I  arrived  at  L. an  hour  before  sunset.     Put  up  at  Mr. 

C — ^'s,  a  good  house — landlord  pious.  A  gentleman  mentioned 

at  the  table  that  L. ought  to  congratulate  itself  on  being 

the  birth-place  of  the  prince  of  American  poets.  Upon  hear- 
ing this  speech,  I,  who  had  hitherto  minded  nobody  but  my- 
self and  nothing  but  my  plate,  suddenly  looked  up,  and  en- 
tered into  a  long  conversation  with  the  author,  on  subjects 
relating  to  his  singular  speech.  He  said  he  had  lately  read 
a  foreign  Review,  in  which  was  a  critique  on  Mr.  P's  poetry, 
containing  much  about  there  being  no  poets  in  this  country, 
and  then  placing  Mr.  P.  at  the   head   of  them,   mentioning 

likewise  that  we  had  no  divines  of  note,  except  Mr.  C. 

&c.  So  Mr.  Reviewer,  whoever  you  are,  it  is  very  manifest 
what  you  are,  and  how  much  your  opinion  is  worth  on  such 
subjects.  After  tea,  I  took  a  walk  up  the  west  side  of  the 
street  running  North.  I  met  Mr.  B.  in  company  with  an- 
other gentleman.  We  passed  as  near  each  other  as  possi- 
ble. He  looked  at  me  but  did  not  recollect  me,  and  I  felt 
so  much  inclined  to  be  alone,  that  I  passed  without  introdu- 
cing myself  I  saw  no  more  of  him  while  in  L.  I  continued 
to  pace  the  side-walk  to  and  fro,  from  one  end  of  the  street 
to  the  other.  The  evening  was  one  well  calculated  to  de- 
light the  pensive  mind.  At  sunset  and  after,  the  western 
sky  was  richly  beautiful.  L.  is  one  of  the  most  pleasant  vil- 
lages in  the  country ;  my  walk  was  in  the  pleasantest  part  of 
it,  the  evening  was  one  of  the  pleasantest  in  the  year,  and 
why  should  I  go  to  my  lodgings  till  the  fear  of  being  shut  out 
of  doors  compelled  me  ?     Next  day  I  proceeded  onward  as 


MEMOIR.  3ft 

far  as  N.,  the  day  after  to  S.  Mr.  D.  was  still  unable  to 
preach  and  his  pulpit  unsupplied.  I  offered  to  preach  a  Sab- 
bath for  him  which  was  gladly  accepted.  I  busied  myself 
till  Sabbath  in  reading  the  Christian  Observer  and  Christian 
Spectator,  with  a  design  of  comparing  their  merits  in  several 
particulars,  and  in  reading  Buchanan's  Life,  from  which  I 
hope  to  receive  material  benefit  in  some  respects,  especially 
from  his  maintaining  while  in  college  the  spirit  of  devotion  in 
a  high  degree,  in  the  midst  of  the  closest  attention  to  mathe- 
mathical  studies;  and  from  the  energy  and  perseverance 
with  which  he  pursued  every  good  object  that  came  in  his 
way  till  death.  After  having  preached  on  the  sabbath,  the 
next  day  I  rode  to  N.  and  called  at  the  house  where  those 
who  had  supplied  the  pulpit  had  boarded.  The  man  of  the 
house,  one  of  the  Society's  Committee,  being  absent  from 
home,  I  conversed  with  his  wife  who  is  a  very  intelligent 
and  interesting  woman.  She  observed  that  they  were  a 
large  people,  that  they  were  pretty  particular,  and  expected 
something  above  mediocrity,  that  they  were  already  divided 
in  consequence  of  having  several  candidates,  and  one  in  par- 
ticular who  came  and  offered  to  preach,  thus  pressing  him- 
self into  the  pulpit  uninvited,  that  Messrs.  O.  and  H.  had 
been  recommended  to  them,  and  finally,  that  the  Committee 
had  written  to  Mr.  S.  to  recommend  some  one  from  the 
next  class,  having  understood  that  there  were  young  men  of 
talents  in  it.  So  you  see  I  had  got  out  of  my  latitude.  I 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  back  out  with  as  good  a  grace  as  I 
could,  and  be  off  with  myself.  Ah  me  !  I  am  in  a  strange 
land  without  a  pass. 

"  Be  hushed  my  dark  spirit,  for  wisdom  condemns 

What  the  faint  and  the  feeble  deplore, 

Be  firm  as  the  rock  of  the  ocean,  that  stems 

A  thousand  wild  waves  on  the  shore." 

On  returning  to  S.  I  went   five  miles   out  of  my  way  to 
visit  G.    It  is  indeed  a  delightful  place,  and  I  almost  thought 


36  MEMOIR. 

of  settling  down  there  and  turning  poet.  I  went  so  far  as 
to  enquire  the  price  of  board.  I  then  turned  my  face 
northward  again,  deeming  it  high  time  to  retreat  into  the 
woods  and  hide  myself  I  came  to  this  place  and  preached 
a  Sabbath  and  received  a  request  to  continue  three  months. 
I  consented  out  of  necessity;  and  here  I  am,  labouring  at  the 
rate  of  350  dollars  a  year,  when  I  am  in  debt  630,  100  of 
which  must  be  paid  in  two  months,  and  the  remainder  as  fast 
as  possible.  At  this  rate,  I  may  possibly  be  free  from  debt 
some  three  or  four  years  hence,  should  providence  spare 
my  life  and  health  and  reason. 

As  a  man  and  his  wife  are  but  one,  this  letter  must  be  con- 
sidered as  addressed  to  both  of  you,  one  complex  person. 
Again,  If  a  man  and  wife  make  but  one,  then  either  of  you 
alone  is  but  half  a  one.  Consequently  a  letter  from  either 
of  you  alone  will  be  but  half  a  letter.  Therefore  if  either 
of  you  write  alone,  you  must  write  twice  to  my  once,  other- 
wise I  shall  not  consent  to  balance  accounts. 

Yours  with  much  respect  and  affection, 

C.  W. 

Huntington,  Nov.  2,  1819. 
Dear  Brother  and  Sister, 

Your  letter  came  to  hand  just  in  time  to  relieve  me 
from  the  fear  of  being  forgotten,  and  from  the  fear  that  all 
was  not  well  with  you.  I  am  permitted  to  call  you  brother 
and  sister.  That  word  sister  sounds  very  novel  and  sweet 
in  my  ear.  I  was  never  before  permitted  to  call  any  one 
by  the  tender  and  endearing  appellation. 

Permit  me  to  congratulate  you  with  all  my  heart  on  the 
birth  of  a  young  poetess.  Does  not  the  little  stranger  already 
begin  to  sing?  Do  not  the  bees  begin  to  light  on  her  lips  to 
sip  honey  while  she  sleeps  in  the  cradle ;  as  according  to 
fable  they  did  upon  those  of  Pindar?  Have  you  never  yet 
dreamt,  as  Socrates  did  respecting  his  pupil  Plato,  that  you 
had  embraced  a  young  swan,  which  nestled  in  your  bosom 
till  its  feathers  were  full  grown,  and  then  stretching  out  its 


MEMOIR.  37 

wings,  soared  to  an  immense  height   in  the  air,  singing  all 
the  while  with  inexpressible  sweetness? 

I  begin  to  look  back  upon  the  period  which  I  spent  with 
you  as  a  golden  dream,  too  bright  to  be  forgotten,  and  too 
happy  to  be  remembered  without  pleasure,  but  too  transient 
to  be  remembered  without  pain,  "pleasant  but  mournful  to 
the  soul." 

I  regret  to  hear  that  your  trials  continue.  I  hope  that  God 
will  enable  you  to  maintain  your  ground,  and  continue  to 
blow  not  a  "ram's  horn,"  but  the  silver  trumpet  of  the  gospel, 
till  the  sound  ring  through  all  the  rallies,  and  echo  on  the 
mountains,  so  long  and  so  loud,  as  to  wake  the  dry  bones 
to  life. 

Have  you  seen  Mr.  S — 's  letters  to  Mr.  C?  They  are  ad- 
mirable. The  spirit  with  which  they  are  written  is  altogether 
new  in  the  history  of  controversy.  The  book  is  in  this  re- 
spect, as  well  as  in  others,  the  best  piece  of  controversial  di- 
vinity that  ever  I  read. 

My  engagements  in  this  place  extend  to  the  first  Sabbath 
in  Dec.  inclusive.     What  will  become  of  me  then  is  uncer* 
tain.     I  trust  the  Lord  will  direct  me,  and  provide  for  me. 
Yours  most  affectionately, 

C.  W. 

Norioalk,  January  ^Q,  1820. 
1  have  very  strong  reasons  for  not  settling  in  the  min- 


istry at  present.  In  the  first  place,  I  am  in  debt  six  hundred 
dollars  ;  and  the  experience  of  other  ministers  has  convin- 
ced me  that  unless  I  pay  the  debt  before  I  settle,  I  shall 
never  pay  it.  In  the  second  place,  I  grow  more  and  more 
confirmed  in  the  belief  that  I  can  do  more  good  in  some 
other  capacity  than  that  of  a  settled  clergyman.  I  said  the 
same,  years  ago,  but  was  advised  and  urged  to  make  the  tri- 
al as  fairly  as  practicable.  I  have  now  preached  about  a 
year,  and  performed  all  the  duties  of  a  settled  clergyman, 
except  that  of  administering  the  ordinances.  I  have  preach- 
ed, and  lectured,  and  visited  ;  but  while  I  have  endeavoured 
to  feed  others,  I  have  been  starving  my  own  soul.      When  I 


38  MEMOIR. 

hear  others  preach  and  pray,  I  am  happy,  I  hope  1  am 
sometimes  devout  ;  but  when  I  preach  and  pray  myself,  I 
am  neither  devout  nor  happy.  Solemn,  alarming  confes- 
sion !  What  shall  I  do  ?  Where  shall  I  go  ? 

I  have  thought  very  seriously  of  v^^hat  you  said  to  me  res- 
pecting a  connexion  with  the  Christian  Spectator.  The  di- 
rection of  my  former  studies  and  my  present  inclination,  ap- 
pear in  favour  of  such  a  connexion.  But  I  know  not  wheth- 
er the  thing  can  now  be  brought  about.  Let  the  subject  rest 
for  the  present.  I  have  my  head  full  of  a  previous  project, 
a  project  not  just  now  started,  but  nearly  completed.  Now 
for  a  great  secret.  The  year  ending  with  March  1819,  I 
spent  at  my  father's  house,  exclusively  employed  in  writing 
a  didactic  jJoem  in  the  school  of  Young  and  Cowper.  Now 
you  may  laugh  at  me,  and  pity  me,  and  pray  for  me,  but  you 
must  not  advise  me  to  give  it  up.  Such  advice  will  only 
distract  me  for  a  little  while  without  persuading  me.  I  have 
gone  too  far  to  go  back.  Five  thousand  lines  are  finished  ; 
one  thousand  more  are  wanting  to  complete  the  plan.  The 
subject  is  "The  age  of  Benevolence  ;"  and  you  who  know 
so  well  what  is  doing  at  the  present  day  for  the  extension  of 
Christ's  kingdom,  know  the  subject  is  a  great  and  good  one, 
and  one  that  will  do  much  towards  saving  the  work  from 
contempt.  I  have  done  nothing  to  it  since  last  April,  at 
which  time  I  left  it  in  its  present  state  in  order  to  pay  some 
debts,  that  could  remain  unpaid  no  longer.  I  find  that  I  can  do 
nothing  to  it  while  1  continue  to  perform  all  the  various  du- 
ties of  preaching,  lecturing,  visiting,  &c.  I  M^ant  my  time  all  to 
myself,  that  1  may  have  my  mind  all  to  myself.  I  am  now  re- 
solved to  devote  five  or  six  months  to  finishing,  correcting, 
copying  &c.  &:c.  that  1  may  get  the  work  oflf  my  hands.  I 
want  some  place  for  utter  seclusion.  Where  shall  1  find  it  ? 
Dare  I  ask  for  a  home  under  your  roof?  I  mean  as  a  boarder, 
not  as  a  beggar.  Will  it  be  convenient  and  agreeable  ?  Can  I 
have  a  little  lonely  chamber  ?  Do  write  me  a  speedy  answer 
to  this  singular  request.  Refusal  will  be  less  intolerable  than 
suspense.     I  wish  to  know  which  way  to  turn.     And  now 


MEMOIR.  ay 

since  I  have  thus  committed  myself  to  your  mercy,  do  not 
betray  me  nor  despise  me.  It  is  not  without  a  great  strug- 
gle, that  this  secret  is  wrung  from  me.  While  I  was  with 
you  I  was  a  hundred  times  upon  the  very  point  of  letting  it  out; 
but  I  had  not  resolution  enough  to  meet  the  cold  encourage- 
ment of  mingled  pity  and  affection.  Remember  me  in  those 
hours  when  a  poor  erring  mortal  most  needs  to  be  remember- 
ed. C.  W. 

P.  S.     I  shall  probably  repent  that  I  have  written  tliis  let- 
ter as  soon  as  it  is  gone. 

Norwalk,  March  1,  18'20. 
Your  kind  letter  was  indeed  a  reviving  cordial  to  my  droop- 
ing spirits.  My  health  has  been  failing  for  some  time  past, 
and  with  it  my  mind  has  felt  its  usual  sympathy.  The  palpi- 
tation of  the  heart,  a  complaint  which  has  afflicted  me,  more 
or  less,  for  four  or  five  years,  has  increased  during  the  past  fall, 
and  the  present  winter,  to  an  alarming  degree.  I  have  long 
been  accustomed  to  pass  it  off  with  a  laugh,  but  it  has  been  gain- 
ing ground  so  long  that  it  has  become  no  laughing  matter.  It 
was  brought  on  at  first,  by  the  weak  consumptive  state  of 
health,  with  which  I  was  afflicted  during  the  whole  of  my  fii'st 
winter  at  Andover.  Medicine  appears  to  have  no  effect  to- 
wards removing  it.  I  have  worn  a  strengthening  plaster  for 
a  month  or  two,  and  have  taken  wine-bitters,  prepared  with 
various  bracing  ingredients.  I  have  also  taken  the  oxid  of 
iron,  together  with  various  other  infallible  cures,  but  all  to  no 
purpose.  Last  week  I  was  bled,  because  a  young  man  in  this 
place,  who  almost  died  with  the  same  complaint,  was  cured 
by  bleeding.  But  he  was -a  person  quite  fleshy  and  full  of 
blood.  The  very  reverse  is  the  case  with  me.  I  had  no  blood 
to  lose,  and  fainted  away  before  half  a  pint  had  been  taken 
from  me.  I  continued  to  faint  during  the  day,  so  soon  as  I 
attempted  to  sit  up.  My  disorder  serves  to  weaken  me  in 
several  ways  ;  directly,  by  its  violence,  and  indirectly,  by  in- 
juring my  appetite  and  disturbing  my  sleep.  I  am  troubled 
with  it  some  days,  almost  incessantly,  and  on  none,  am  I  en- 


40 


MEMOIR. 


tirely  free  from  it.  It  is  much  the  most  violent  on  the  Sab- 
bath. When  the  hour  for  pubhc  worship  draws  nigh,  my 
trembling  diffidence  increases  it  to  such  a  degree,  as  to  pros- 
trate my  strength,  and  render  my  task  almost  insupportable. 
I  have  not  preached  for  six  weeks  past,  without  suffering  the 
most  violent  palpitation,  during  the  greater  part  of  the  exer- 
cises. Several  times,  I  have  felt  as  if  I  should  fall  down 
with  faintness,  even  in  time  of  prayer.  It  is  very  disagreea- 
ble, as  well  as  painful  to  preach,  when  I  feel  so.  Last  Sab- 
bath I  was  not  able  to  preach  at  all.  My  physicians  advise 
me  to  give  up  preaching  for  the  present.  I  have  not  written 
a  sermon  for  ten  weeks.  If  I  preach  any  longer,  I  must  write, 
but  I  cannot  endure  the  labour  of  composing  two  sermons  a 
week,  without  taking  a  great  share  of  bodily  exercise,  and  I 
cannot  take  any  at  all  without  bringing  on  my  complaint.  If 
I  sit  still,  indigestion  brings  it  on.  Thus  am  I  straitened  on 
every  side.  But  I  hope  that  a  little  relaxation  and  systematic 
exercise,  together  with  the  opening  spring,  will  enable  me  to 
study  so  much  as  not  entirely  to  forget  the  use  of  my  books  and 
my  pen.  The  beauties  of  your  mountains  on  which  I 
hope  to  take  many  a  delightful  ramble,  and  the  beauties  of 
your  lakes  and  streams,  together  with  the  care  of  your  garden  ; 
and  above  all  your  own  sweet  company,  will  restore  my 
health  and  spirits,  if  any  thing  can  restore  them.  I  hope  to 
grasp  your  hand,  ere  this  month  is  at  an  end.  Pray  that  I 
may  be  directed,  and  healed,  and  supported  by  Him  who  do- 
eXh  all  things  well.  C.  W. 

These  letters  have  been  inserted,  because  they  contain 
more  full  disclosures  than  could  otherwise  have  been  made, 
of  his  plans  and  feelings  at  the  time  they  were  written. — 
Though  he  had  disclosed  his  intention  of  devoting  some  time 
to  the  writing  of  poetry,  to  two  of  his  most  intimate  college 
friends,  as  appears  from  their  answers  to  his  letters,  it  is  be- 
lieved that  this  was  the  first  time  he  definitely  made  known 
his  design  to  write  the  "  Age  of  Benevolence." 

He  left  Norwalk  about  the  first  of  April,  1820,  and  through 


MEMOIR.  41 

relaxation  and  exercise,  attended  by  the  blessing  of  Divine 
Providence,  he  gradually  increased  in  strength,  and  obtained 
a  temporary  relief  from  the  disease  with  which  he  was  so  se- 
verely afflicted. 

The  two  following  years,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
weeks,  were  employed  at  the  house  of  a  friend  in  Salisbury, 
Con.  upon  the  above  mentioned  poem.  On  sitting  down  to 
this  labour,  he  found  it  greater  than  he  had  anticipated,  or  at 
least  we  may  draw  this  inference  from  the  fact,  that  instead 
of  getting  it  off  his  hands  in  a  few  months,  only  the  first  book 
was  prepared  to  make  its  appearance  after  the  lapse  of  two 
years.  These  years  were  not  wasted  m  idle  musings.  His  ha- 
bits of  study  were  such  as  become  every  student.  His  time  was 
carefully  divided  between  close  application,  efficient  exer- 
cise, and  relaxation  of  mind  by  devotional  and  literary  read- 
ing. He  wrote  and  corrected  with  great  care,  and  endeav- 
ored to  add  a  definite  number  of  lines  every  day.  On  some 
days  he  wrote  many  more  than  he  proposed  to  himself  as  his 
task,  and  in  the  review  he  examined,  and  re-exammed,  every 
word  with  nice  discrimination. 

He  seemed  to  find  high  enjoyment  in  social  reading,  inter- 
mingled with  fi'ee  conversation  upon  the  merits  of  the  book 
read,  the  signification  and  power  of  words,  and  the  philoso- 
phy of  language.  The  North  American  Review  was  a  fa- 
vorite literary  work.  Foster's  Essays,  and  Baxter's  Saint's 
Rest  were  always  on  his  table,  and  it  is  believed  that  scarce- 
ly a  day  passed  in  wliich  he  did  not  read  some  pages  of  one, 
or  both  of  them.  But  the  Bible  was  the  book,  upon  the 
pages  of  which  he  delighted  most  to  dwell.  From  all  other 
books  he  would  turn  to  this,  with  a  glow  of  feeling,  and  with 
a  cheerful  expression,  which  made  it  manifest  that  he  had 
chosen  this  for  his  heritage  forever. 

These  two  years  were  spent  in  uniform  cheerfulness.  He 
lost  no  time  "weather-bound,"  or  suffering  under  mental  de- 
pression. Like  every  other  writer,  he  saw  days  in  which, 
from  some  indescribable  cause,  his  mind   was  less  fitted  for 

originating  thought,  yet  those  days  were  not  spent  in  despair- 

6 


42 


MEMOIR. 


ing  complaints.  They  were  employed  in  transcribing  what 
he  had  previously  corrected,  or  in  select  and  judicious  read- 
ing. He  chose  to  see  but  little  company,  that  he  might  pros- 
ecute his  work  without  interruption:  yet  he  evidently  en- 
joyed society  in  a  high  degree,  and  was  never  more  happy 
and  eloquent,  than  when  in  the  social  circle  he  expressed 
his  thoughts  on  literary  subjects,  or  on  practical  religion. — 
His  conversation  was  characterized  by  good  sense,  correct 
and  dehcate  taste,  and  ardent  piety.  Of  himself  he  spoke 
little,  and  always  with  humility.  Before  strangers  he  was 
reserved,  especially  on  every  thing  relative  to  his  own  em- 
ployment or  feelings  on  the  subject  of  poetry.  Indeed,  du- 
ring these  two  years,  he  was  never  known  to  exhibit  a  line 
of  poetry,  of  his  own  composition, to  his  most  intimate  friends. 
He  preached  a  few  times,  but  never  without  suffering  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  sometimes  for  a  week  afterwards,  with  the 
palpitation  of  the  heart. 

For  a  respite  from  study,  he  spent  about  ten  weeks  in  the 
spring  of  1821,  at  East-Haven,  in  the  family  of  the  late  Dea. 
Morris.  Of  these  days  he  often  spoke  as  among  the  happiest 
in  his  life.  The  delightful  scenery,  the  retirement,  and  the 
friends  he  there  found,  rendered  them  peculiarly  exhilarating 
to  his  mind  :  and  by  that  circle  of  friends,  made  happier  by 
his  company,  he  will  never  be  forgotten. 

At  the  expiration  of  the  second  year,  he  had  written,  or  rath- 
er re-written,  as  appears  from  his  letter  of  Jan.  28, 1820,  about 
nine  thousand  lines,  and  prepared  the  first  book  for  the  press. 
To  the  friends  with  whom  he  resided,  he  read  the  first  book 
and  part  of  the  fourth,  and  what  may  be  added  as  exhibiting 
a  trait  of  his  character,  he  began  by  reading  a  number  of  un- 
poetic  lines  from  Cowper  and  Milton,  which  he  had  tran- 
scribed for  that  purpose.  He  read  the  first  book  to  two 
other  friends,  and  it  is  not  known  that  any  other  ever  saw  or 
heard  a  fine  of  the  production  of  these  three  years  labours, 
until  they  saw  the  first  part  of  his  work  from  the  press. 

The  plan  of  publishing  the  first  book  by  itself,  was  adopt- 
ed through  the  advice  of  one  of  the  friends  to  whom  he  read 


MEMOIR.  ♦S 

the  manuscript,  in  whose  judgment  he  placed  great  confi- 
dence, though  all  his  other  acquaintance,  whom  he  is  known 
to  have  consulted,  thought  it  better  to  publish  the  whole  at 
once.  Had  the  state  of  his  finances  allowed  him  to  have 
pubhshed  the  whole  at  his  own  expense,  this  course  he  would 
have  preferred.  It  is  deeply  to  be  regretted,  that  the  whole 
work,  when  thus  prepared,  or  nearly  so,  for  the  pubhc,  was 
not  sent  forth  under  the  author's  own  care.  The  reception 
which  the  first  book  met  with,  ought  not  to  have  discouraged 
him.  The  thousand  copies  printed,  found  as  ready  sale  as 
could  have  been  expected,  considering  it  was  but  a  frag- 
ment. 

His  own  views  and  feelings,  while  his  little  work  was  in 
the  press,  and  afterwards,  are  expressed  in  some  of  the  fol- 
lowing letters  to  his  friends. 

New-Haven,  Ajiril  29,  1822. 
"  O  that  mine  enemy  had  written  a  book  !"  This  is  the 
saying  of  an  author,  who  thought  it  right  to  hate  his  enemy 
and  to  wish  him  all  manner  of  evil.  You  may  think  this  a 
sad  beginning.  I  have  just  returned  to  my  room  from  the 
book-store,  where  I  saw  the  first  hundred  out  of  my  thou- 
sand copies  brought  in  ;  when  lo  !  and  behold  !  the  three  first 
copies  which  I  laid  my  hands  on,  were  bound  all  helter-skelter, 
the  beginning  in  the  middle,  and  the  last  end  first.  The  book- 
seller snatched  them  up,  and  ran  to  the  binders,  then  in  came 
the  binder,  and  we  began  to  look  them  over  one  by  one. — 
Soon  there  came  in  a  man,  and  took  up  one  and  began  to 
read.  I  trembled  and  hurried  out  of  the  house,  but  heard 
before  I  reached  the  door,  the  very  comforting  enquiry, — 
"  WTio  is  this  Carlos  Wilcox  ?"  I  will  now  go  back  to  the 
beginning  of  my  dealmgs  with  printers  and  booksellers,  for 
as  you  perceive,  I  have  begun  this  letter  in  the  true  epic 
style,  that  is,  in  the  middle  of  my  story.  After  I  had  recov- 
ered from  the  illness  of  which  I  informed  you,  I  went  to  see 

Mr.  C .     He  had  too  much   work  on  hand  to  print  my 

thing.     I  then  went  by  the  advice   of  Mr.  F ,  to  A.  H. 


44  MEMOIR. 

Maltby  &,  Co.  and  made  a  bargain  for  printing  and  doing  up 
the  work  in  the  style  in  which  you  see  it.  This  form  was 
declared  by  every  one,  to  be  much  more  saleable  than  any 
other  for  a  work  of  the  kind  and  size.  When  I  saw  the 
printer's  boy  come  into  my  room  with  the  first  proof  sheet, 
I  felt  almost  inclined  to  throw  it  into  the  fire  at  once,  with- 
out looking  at  it ;  so  painful  was  my  solicitude  respecting  the 
appearance  of  my  ideas  in  print.  My  agitation,  together 
with  my  familiar  acquaintance  with  every  line,  rendered  me 
quite  unfit  to  do  the  business  of  correction.  But  the  worst  of 
all  was  to  find  in  the  second  proof,  after  some  dozen  of  sheets 
had  been  struck  oflf,  that  the  printer  had  spelt  "  plough," 
"  plow,"  and  not  because  it  was  so  in  the  manuscript,  but  be- 
cause he  thought  it  was  sometimes  spelt  so,  and  would  thus 
save  turning  up  the  end  of  the  line.  This  you  may  well  sup- 
pose was  not  very  favourable  for  the  palpitation  of  the  heart. 
I  went  into  the  printer's  office  and  had  the  press  stopped  for 
the  correction  of  this  error  and  several  others.  You  know 
nothing  about  the  pleasure  of  being  in  such  a  place,  and  hear-- 
ing  your  poetry  groaning  beneath  the  press,  and  chinking  in 
the  type-setter's  fingers.  You  never  thus  listened  to  the  mu- 
sic of  your  OM^n  numbers. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  S. has  just  called  upon  me  and  object- 
ed to  the  price  of  the  poem  ;  and  I  have  been  to  the  book- 
seller, and  altered  it  from  thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents  to 
twenty-five.  About  fifty  had  been  sold,  but  the  buyers  of 
these  are  to  receive  back  the  difference.  Many  of  my  friends 
have  come  to  me  and  remonstrated  against  the  change  in' the 

price.     Mr.  H tells  me,  it  had  been  better  to  raise  it  to 

fifty.     And  Mr.  D ,  who  has  some  acquaintance  with  the 

book-selling  business,  says  it  will  not  sell  half  as  well  in  the 
city,  as  it  would  at  a  higher  price.  In  a  multitude  of  coun- 
sellors there  is .     I  can  bear  complaints  about  too  low, 

but  not  about  too  high,  so  the  price  must  stand  at  twenty-five, 
though  it  will  leave  me,  even  if  the  m^ioIc  edition  be  sold, 


MEMOIR.  45 

next  to  nothing,  after  deducting  the  expenses  of  printing,  and 
the  thirty-three  and  a  third  per  cent  of  the  bookseller. 

Yours  affectionately, 

C.  W. 

New-Haven,  Maij  31,  1822. 
1  have  lately  received  a  very  interesting  letter  from  my 


mother,  from  which  I  have  the  happiness  to  learn,  that  two 

of  my  brothers  have  lately  become    hopefully  pious. 

My  friend,  I  must  preach  the  gospel,  though  1  have  much 
reason  to  believe  that  my  health  will  fail,  and  my  life  be 
cut  short.  I  shall  endeavour  to  complete  the  "  Age  of  Be- 
nevolence," but  perhaps  at  the  rate  of  one  book  in  a  year. 
For  the  present  I  must  do  nothing  but  write  sermons.  O, 
pray  for  me.  I  have  not  preached  yet,  but  I  expect  to  at- 
tempt next  sabbath.  Where  I  shall  spend  the  summer,  is 
uncertain. 

July  18. — If  I  can  have  my  health,  I  must  preach,  or  do 
something  to  enable  me  to  pay  my  debts.  I  cannot  write 
poetry  while  I  am  thus  embarrassed.  A  young  brother  of 
mine  has  written,  that  he  has  begun  to  fit  for  college  with  a 
view  to  the  ministry,  and  that  our  father  has  told  him,  that 
he  must  stop  now,  unless  I  can  pay  him  very  soon.  He  has 
written  me  a  pleading  letter,  the  thought  of  which,  makes  me 
weep. 

August  27. — Your  letter  I  did  not  receive  till  this  morning, 
in  consequence  of  being  absent  for  a  week.  To  some  part 
of  your  plan  1  have  strong  objections.  1  wish  you  not  on 
any  account,  to  collect  your  money  with  the  expectation  of 
loaning  it  to  me.  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  your  of- 
fer, but  I  cannot  consent  to  accept  of  it.  1  cannot,  because 
if  1  should  die  before  1  became  able  to  refund  the  loan,  you 
might  lose  it ;  whereas,  if  I  should  die  without  paying  my  fa- 
ther, the  debt  would  be  discharged  by  that  event.  At  any 
rate,  1  cannot  bring  my  feelings  to  accede  to  this  part  of  your 
plan. 

With  respect  to  "'  The  Book,"  you  judge  correctly  in  say- 


46  MEMOIR. 

ing,  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  do  much  towards  it  wliile  engaged 
in  preaching.  I  know  very  well  that  I  shall  not.  The  la- 
bour of  preaching,  with  my  palpitation  of  heart,  produces 
such  an  exhaustion  of  strength  and  spirits,  that  to  re-write 
an  old  sermon,  or  make  out  a  new  one,  takes  up  the  whole 
week,  besides  the  many  hours  consumed  by  necessary  and 
unnecessary  interruptions.  But  as  I  have  undertaken  to 
preach  again,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  continue,  while  my  health 
will  permit.  The  cold  weather  of  winter,  will  perhaps  put  a 
stop  to  the  business." 

New-Haven,  Dec.  6,  1822. 
My  Dear  Brother  Alonzo, 

I  have  been  informed  by  a  letter  from  H ,  that  you 

have  been  dangerously  sick,  but  are  now  on  the  recovery. 
I  hope  that  this  letter  will  find  you  quite  well  again.  You 
are  now,  perhaps,  better  qualified  to  estimate  aright  the  val- 
ue of  an  interest  in  the  salvation  of  Christ,  than  ever  you  were. 
When  you  lay  on  a  bed  of  anguish,  and  appeared  to  be  near 
the  eternal  world,  did  not  all  beneath  the  sun  seem  less  than 
nothing  and  vanity  ?  Did  not  the  worth  of  the  imperishable 
soul,  then  seem  greater  than  that  of  the  whole  world  ?  Do 
not  forget  what  you  then  thought  of  sin,  of  the  vain  amusements 
and  vain  emoluments  of  earth.  Do  not  forget  what  you  then 
thought  of  the  friendship,  the  company,  the  conversation,  and 
the  immoralities  of  the  wicked.  Continue  to  estimate  things 
as  you  then  estimated  them,  and  to  feel  respecting  them  as 
you  then  felt.  I  hope  that  God  has  brought  you  to  love  him, 
and  will  now  giv^  you  a  heart  to  love  him  more  fervently. 
Live  near  to  God,  my  dear  brother,  and  you  will  be  happy 
here  and  hereafter.  All  things  wall  work  together  for  your 
good,  in  life,  in  death,  and  in  eternity.  God  has  designed  by 
this  sickness  to  show  you  how  frail  you  are,  how  entirely  de- 
pendent on  him.  What  is  our  hfe,  but  a  vapour  that  appear- 
eth  for  a  little  while  and  then  vanisheth  away  ?  On  Tues- 
day of  this  week,  I  saw  a  girl  thirteen  years  old,  breathe  her 
last,  in  the  midst  of  weeping  parents  and  sisters.    She  prayed 


MEMOIR.  47 

earnestly  to  Christ  to  have  mercy  on  her,  and  on  all  around  her. 
She  prayed  almost  with  her  last  breath,  though  in  the  greatest 
distress.  It  was  to  me  a  solemn,  and  I  hope  a  profitable  scene. 
Pray  for  me,  write  to  me,  and  give  me  an  account  of  your 
religious  views  and  feelings. 

January  7,  1823. 
I  have  lately  read  Scott's  Life,  and  I  think  it  has  done  me 
good.  It  is  truly  a  valuable  book.  It  far  exceeded  my  ex- 
pectations. What  an  example  of  strength  of  purpose,  and  in- 
defatigable industry  !  Wliat  self-denial  and  what  singleness  of 
aim  !  What  apostolic  devotedness  to  the  great  work  of  the 
mmistry  !  There  is  likewise,  in  my  opinion,  much  evidence 
of  a  great  and  original  mind,  much  more  than  in  his  Commen- 
tary. There  is  a  vividness  of  conception  and  expression, 
which  we  do  not  find  in  any  of  his  works  before  pubhshed. 
Pray  for  me,  my  friend,  that  I  may  possess,  not  the  greatness 
of  Dr.  Scott,  but  some  of  his  self-denial,  industry  and  devot- 
edness. 

You  probably  expect  me  to  say  what  I  intend  to  do  in  re- 
gard to  the  poem.  Why  really  I  cannot  tell.  I  do  not  give 
up  the  intention  of  finishing  it,  at  some  future  period.     The 

first  book  will  soon  be  forgotten  ;  and  let  it. At  some 

future  period  of  my  life,  if  it  should  be  prolonged,  and  circum- 
stances should  permit,  I  may  re-write  the  first  book,  and  finish 
the  rest,  and  then  send  abroad  a  volume,  instead  of  a  primer 
pamphlet. 

Strafford,  Feb.  16,  1823. 
My  Dear  Mother, 

By  a  letter  from  brother  H.  I  hear  that  you  are  quite 
sick,  and  have  been  so  for  a  considerable  time.  I  have  long 
waited  in  vain  for  a  letter  from  you.  Your  sickness  accounts 
for  your  silence.  Were  it  not  for  the  cold  weather  and  un- 
pleasant travelling,  I  think  I  should  immediately  start  for  Or- 
well. As  it  is,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  wait,  at  least  till  I  hear 
something  further  respecting  you.      In  the   mean  time,  I 


48  MEMOIR. 

would  gladly  say  something  for  your  consolation,  and  some- 
thing to  show  that  I  tenderly  love  you,  and  pray  for  you  dai- 
ly. You  know  well  that  the  only  source  of  true  comfort, 
even  in  health,  is  the  God  and  Father  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.  He  is  the  overflowing  and  inexhaustible  fountain  of 
light,  and  life,  and  joy,  even  in  the  vigour  of  our  days,^and  in 
the  sunshine  of  worldly  prosperity.  What  then  must  He  be 
in  our  days  of  pain  and  affliction.  In  such  seasons,  the  ques- 
tion may  be  asked  with  double  force,  "  To  whom  shall  we 
go  but  to  Him  V  We  need  not  go  to  any  other.  He  is  enough 
for  the  soul's  eternal  portion.  If  it  be  filled  with  all  the  ful- 
ness of  God,  it  surely  cannot  want  any  thing  more.  Though 
your  heart  and  flesh  should  fail,  my  dear  mother,  may  God 
be  the  strength  of  your  heart,  and  your  portion  forever.  It 
is  my  continual  and  earnest  prayer,  that  you  may  be  speedily 
restored  to  health,  that  you  may  live  to  see  all  your  children 
ornaments  in  the  church  and  blessings  to  the  world,  and  that 
you  may  enjoy  an  old  age  clearer  than  the  noon  day,  with- 
out a  cloud,  bright  with  the  visions  of  an  approaching  Heav- 
en. May  God  spare  you,  that  you  may  recover  strength, 
before  you  go  hence  to  be  here  no  more.  But  should  it  not 
be  the  will  of  Heaven  to  restore  you  to  health,  I  trust  you 
will  have  strength  of  faith  to  support  you  in  the  sinking  hour 
of  death,  and  brightness  of  hope  to  cheer  you  in  its  darkness. 
I  have  lately  seen  a  copy  of  the  last  letter,  that  my  dear 
friend,  Levi  Parsons,  dictated  to  Mr.  Fisk.  It  was  written 
only  three  days  before  his  death.  At  the  close  of  the  letter, 
he  breathes  out  his  soul  in  a  strain  like  the  following.  '  My 
mortal  frame  grows  weaker  every  hour,  but  my  imperishable 
spirit  becomes  more  and  more  vigorous.  The  world  fades 
away  and  recedes  from  my  view  ;  while  heaven  comes  near- 
er and  grows  brighter.  The  world  will  soon  vanish  forever, 
and  all  will  soon  be  heaven.'  With  such  a  view  of  the  world 
of  glory  opened  before  liim,  did  this  ethereal  spirit  bid  fare- 
well to  all  below,  clap  his  wings  in  triumph,  and  take  its  up- 
ward flight.     I  often  think  of  him  as  walking  in  white  among 


MEMOIR.  49 

the  glorified  immortals,     I  often  think  of  him  in  connexion 
with  his  favourite  hymn,  beginning, 

*  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear 
To  mansions  in  the  skies, 
I'll  bid  farewell  to  every  fear 
And  wipe  my  weeping  eyes.' 

I  often  think  of  him  as  among  the  ransomed  of  the  Lord, 
who  have  returned  from  all  their  earthly  wanderings,  and 
come  home  to  the  heavenly  Zion,  with  songs  and  everlasting 
joy  upon  their  heads,  and  have  obtained  joy  and  gladness, 
where  sorrow  and  sighing  shall  forever  flee  away ;  where  the 
Lamb,  which  is  in  the  midst  of  the  throne  shall  lead  them  to 
living  fountains  of  water  ;  and  where  God  himself,  with  his 
own  right  hand,  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes, 
and  fill  their  souls  with  his  own  fulness  of  purity  and  bliss. 
O,  is  it  not  enough,  my  dear  mother,  to  die  such  a  death  as 
that  of  this  dear  servant  of  God,  after  having  lived  a  life 
like  his  ?  What  more  can  we  desire  ?  If  we  are  thus  pre- 
pared to  leave  the  earth,  in  the  high  triumph  of  faith,  or  with 
the  peace  of  humble  and  holy  resignation,  what  matter  is  it, 
whether  the  summons  for  our  departure  come  in  youth,  in 
middle  life,  or  not  till  old  age  ?  A  few  years,  more  or  less 
than  those  appointed  to  us,  in  this  world  of  darkness  and  sin, 
of  sorrow  and  death,  would  hardly  be  remembered  in  that 
world  where  all  is  bright,  and  pure,  and  happy,  and  everlast- 
ing. While,  therefore,  I  cease  not  to  pray  that  you  may  be 
spared  for  the  sake  of  your  family  and  the  church,  I  do  not 
forget  the  more  important  petition,  that  you  may  abide  in 
Christ  while  here,  and  that  hereafter  you  may  be  a  joint  heir 
with  him  to  an  inheritance,  incorruptible,  undefiled,  and  that 
fadeth  not  away.  I  know  that  this  has  always  been  your 
prayer  for  me.  Let  it  be  so  still.  Pray  also  that  1  may  have 
strength  and  grace  to  perform  the  duties  of  a  faithful  minis- 
ter of  Jesus.  This  you  have  long  done  ;  and  with  regard  to 
strength  of  body  at  least,  I  feel  confident  that  your  prayer  is 
answered.     Ever  since  the  date  of  my  last  letter,  I  have  been 


50 


MEMOIR. 


able  to  preach  twice  on  the  Sabbath,  and  twice  during  the 
week.  My  health  is  now  quite  good,  though  I  am  obhged  to 
be  very  cautious  respecting  my  diet. — 

March  3,  1823. 

I  received  your  last  just  as  I  had  taken  my  pen  to  write  a 
singing  lecture  to  preach  at  Derby,  from  the  follow  ing  text : 
"  My  heart  is  fixed,  O  God,  my  heart  is  fixed.  I  w  ill  sing  and 
give  praise."  I  suppose  you  will  regard  this  coincidence  as  a 
providential  intimation,  that  it  is  my  duty  to  give  up  preach- 
ing, and  go  to  sinking  with  a  fixedness  of  heart.  Your  ad- 
vice accords  with  that  of  a  man  of  no  less  note  than  Mr. 

F ,  who  recently  enquired  of  me  when  another  number 

was  coming  out ;  to  which  I  gave  answer  that  I  did  not  know, 
as  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  preach  while  I  was  able.  His  reply 
was  in  the  following  words  :  "  Yours  is  a  high  kind  of  preach- 
ing ;  you  get  at  people  that  we  preachers  cannot  reach.  The 
amount  of  good  that  Cowper  has  done,  and  will  do,  is  incal- 
culably more  than  he  could  have  done  as  the  minister  of  a  sin- 
gle parish."     Yes,  added  Br.  B ,  who  was  standing  by, 

"  a  thousand  times." 

The  truth,  my  friend,  requires  me  to  confess  that  your  ad- 
vice and  the  opinion  of  these  eminent  christian  friends,  are 
pleasing  enough  to  my  heart.  All  my  wishes,  as  well  as  my 
tastes,  my  studies,  my  habits  of  thinking,  feeling,  and  acting, 
incline  me  to  pursue  the  course  recommended.  I  might 
mention  others,  who  have  concurred  in  the  opinion  which  you 
have  expressed  on  this  subject.  Even  Mr.  T.,  who  is  no  great 
lover  of  poetry,  as  such,  remarked  to  me  some  months  ago, 
that  he  thought  I  could  not  do  better  than  to  continue  wri- 
ting for  the  public  ;  and  Mrs.  T.  added  that  she  was  afraid  the 
Age  of  Benevolence  would  not  come,  if  I  became  settled  in 
the  ministry.  The  news-papers,  as  you  may  have  obsei-ved, 
have  at  various  times  said  enough  to  encourage  me  to  pro- 
ceed in  my  undertaking.  I  mention  these  things  to  convince 
you,  that  I  have  not  hung  up  my  harp  in  a  pet  of  disappointed 
pride.     I  love  it  as  well  as  ever  I  did  ;  and  would  continue 


MEMOIR.  61 

to  manifest  my  attachment  as  I  have  begun,  if  my  conscience 
and  the  christian  pubhc,  instead  of  a  few  individuals,  would 
bear  me  out  in  it.  You  may  think  that  my  conscience  ought 
to  operate  in  a  different  manner,  in  view  of  the  tacit  pledge  of 
more  books  to  come,  given  to  the  purchasers  of  the  first.  But 
if  the  first  book  alone  is  not  worth  twenty-five  cents,  I  am  sor- 
ry that  any  arguments  of  yours,  should  have  prevailed  on  any 
person  to  purchase  it.  In  saying  this,  I  would  not  deny  the 
greatness  of  my  obligations  to  you ,  for  all  the  pains  you  have 
taken  to  promote  its  circulation.  For  this  I  hope  to  be  al- 
ways grateful.  But  will  not  all  the  reaction  you  speak  of, 
pass  by  you  and  light  on  my  single  head  ?  If  it  will  I  shall  be 
glad,  for  I  have  so  many  greater  troubles,  that  this  will 
scarcely  be  regarded.  Some  of  these  greater  troubles  are, 
my  past  neglect  of  theological  studies  for  those  merely  lite- 
rary— my  past  and  present  unfitness  of  constitutional  temper- 
ament for  the  active,  and  public  duties  of  the  ministry — my 
total  destitution  of  books,  and  my  debts,  which  will  keep  me 
thus  destitute  for  years  to  come,  so  that  I  must  make  ser- 
mons entirely  out  of  my  own  head,  filled  as  it  has  long  been, 
with  only  poetical  images,  instead  of  divine  truth.  Another 
tiling  ;  the  few  sermons  that  I  have  on  hand,  written  for  the 
most  part,  at  leisure,  and  among  commentaries,  lexicons, 
and  systems  of  divinity,  have  given  me  more  reputation,  than 
in  my  present  circumstances,  I  can  possibly  support  under 
the  weight  of  labours  devolving  on  a  settled  minister.  At 
least,  the  effort  necessary  to  support  it,  increased  as  it  per- 
haps is  by  my  authorship,  will  leave  me  no  time  to  count  syl- 
lables on  my  fingers,  and  will  probably  break  down  my  health 
and  spirits,  which  are  now  sufficiently  low.  But  notwith- 
standing all  the  disheartening  circumstances  in  my  situation 
and  prospects,  I  am  fixed  in  my  determination  to  preach  the 

gospel,  while  God  gives  me  strength. 

Here  are  Presbyterians,  Episcopalians,  Baptists,  Metho- 
dists, Antinomians,  Arminians,  Triangulars,  Hopkinsians, 
Universahsts,  Socinians,  and  Nothingarians,  huddled  together 
ih  one   fomenting  mass,  in  this   little  town,  containing   only 


53 


MEMOIR. 


1600  souls.  A  few  years  ago,  all  these  sects  had  their  rep- 
resentatives in  the  congregational  church,  and  many  of  them 
have  to  this  day.  8ome  of  each  are  generally  at  meeting 
on  the  Sabbath,  one  half  of  the  day,  at  least,  provided  it  has 
not  stormed   for  a  week   past,  and   does   not  look  likely  to 

storm  for  a  week  to  come. 

It  is  unpleasant  enough  to  preach  to  such  a  mixed  audi- 
ence. But  this  is  one  of  the  trials,  that  I  must  endure  with 
patience  and  fearlessness.  Forget  not  to  pray,  that  I  may 
be  supported,  and  guided  by  the  Spirit  of  all  Grace. 

Your  friend  and  brother,  C.  W. 

Neic-Haven,  May  28,  1823. 
With  respect  to  my  own  affairs,  I  am  to  preach  here 


one  Sabbath  more,  and  beyond  that  I  have  no  definite  plan. 
I  hope  that  by  next  Nov.  I  shall  have  something  in  the  shape 
of  a  home,  of  some  kind  or  other.  How  it  can  be  brought 
about,  is  more  than  I  can  possibly  discover.  I  cannot  de- 
scend to  reason  on  the  subject,  and  obtain  the  desired  object 
by  ordinary  means  ;  I  can  only  wish  for  it,  and  dream  about 
it,  and  imagine  it  just  at  hand,  and  of  course,  it  is  likely  to  be 
as  far  from  me  as  ever.  Would  that  I  could  break  through 
the  enchantment  of  a  fond  imagination !  But  1  have  not  the 
strength,  and  health,  and  resolution  to  do  it.  I  need  the  grace 
of  God,  I  need  the  prayers  of  my  friends,  I  need  their  sym- 
pathy and  encouragement. 

Southbunj,  Nov,  15, 1823. 
You   have  another  daughter  for  me  to  name.     Let 


me  see, — Julia  and  Adeline. — What  next  ?  Caroline  ?  No. 
That  is  too  much  like  Adeline,  to  come  next  to  it.  We  will 
lay  that  aside  for  the  present.  Shall  it  be  Amelia  ?  No. 
That  is  too  much  like  Julia,  to  come  so  near  it.  You  have 
now  one  of  two  classes  of  pretty  names,  you  want  one  of  an- 
other class.  Elvira  and  Almira  come  into  a  third  class.  In 
a  fourth,  may  be  included  Charlotte,  Antoinette,  Juliet.  But 
the  last  is  too  much  like  Julia.     Thev  would  look  and  sound 


MEMOIR.  53^ 

sweetly  together  for  twin  sisters.  Eniihj,  Irene,  Mart/,  arc 
sweet  names,  belonging  to  no  class.  If  I  were  to  choose 
among  all  these  smooth  liquid  names,  perhaps  I  should  say 
that  Charlotte,  will  come  in  well  after  Julia  and  Adeline.    So 

much  for  names. Yours,  &c. 

C.  W. 
This  last  paragraph  has  been  transcribed  from  his  letters, 
because  it  is  an  exemplification  of  the  author's  taste.     He 
loved  to  dwell  upon  smooth,  sweet-sounding  words. 

New-Haven,  June  18, 1823. 
Ten  thousand  thanks  for  your  delightful  letter.     It  was 

put  into  my  hands  by  H ,  at  a  moment  when  I  needed 

something  to  exhilarate  my  spirits.  I  had  just  been  gazing  in 
solitary  pensiveness,  over  the  beautiful  elms  of  this  city,  as 
their  thick  and  fresh  foliage  slept  without  motion  in  the  light 
of  a  golden  sun-set.  I  had  looked  till  the  city,  with  its  deep 
green  groves,  was  left  in  the  shade,  and  only  the  spire  of  its 
loftiest  tower,  was  shooting  up  into  the  region  of  brightness. 
I  had  watched  the  last  beams,  till  they  had  climbed  the  glitter- 
ing pinnacle,  and  vanished  in  mid-air  ;  and  with  my  eyes  still 
fixed  in  their  upward  direction,  and  my  head  resting  on  my 
hand,  as  I  sat  alone  at  my  window,  I  was  musing  on  those 
bright  visions  of  happiness,  pursued  by  the  imaginative  youth, 
till  they  vanish  in  the  clouds,  and  leave  him  to  the  dark  reali- 
ties of  the  world  below, — when  I  was  waked  from  my  reverie, 
by  the  arrival  of  your  letter.  I  read  it  again  and  again,  till  I 
felt  completely  restored  to  the  region  of  common  sense,  and 
common  hfe — the  world  of  living,  and  acting  beings  of  flesh 
and  blood.  The  account  that  you  give  of  the  state  of  things  in 
your  society,  reminds  me  that  I  am  in  a  world  where  some- 
thing must  be  done,  besides  musing,  and  dreaming.  But  with 
all  your  matter-of-fact  plainness,  you  have,  now  and  then,  a 
touch  of  the  romantic.  "  The  little  tumbler  keeps  its  place  on 
the  mantle-piece,  and  frequently  receives  its  portion  of  Scotch 
roses."  This  is  to  my  liking.  It  is  just  as  our  friend  Cowper 
would  have  written  ;  and  therefore  it  is  just  as  it  should  be. 


54 


MEMOIR. 


"  Your  flowers  have  come  up  ;  but  it  is  ten  to  one,  if  thej''  do 
not  get  choked  with  potatoes  and  mustard,  they  being  staple 
commodities  here."  Well,  let  the  flowers  go  ;  for  if  they  were 
good  to  make  "  nectar  and  cherubim  broth,"  we,  creatures  of 
clay,  must  take  up  with  potatoes  and  mustard.  The  flowers 
of  poetry  and  fine  sentiment  are  often  choked  to  death  by  the 
eatables  of  this  eating  world. 

Southhury,  Jan.  5,  1824. — After  this  long  interval,  I  am 
going  to  fill  out  this  sheet,  instead  of  beginning  with  another, 
that  you  may  see  the  attempt  I  made  to  answer  your  former 
letter.  If  I  deserve  no  credit  for  this  attempt,  I  deserve  none 
for  any  thing  ;  for  my  life  hitherto,  has  been  spent  in  attempts 
that  have  come  to  nought — in  beginnings  with  no  endings. 
I  live  at  present,  by  making  resolutions  of  amendment,  and 
trying  with  conscientious  seriousness,  and  systematic  indus- 
try, to  put  them  in  execution.  But  whether  I  shall  succeed 
or  not,  is  yet  a  matter  of  doubt.  It  must  be  determined  by 
time  and  circumstances. 

You  ask  what  I  am  doing  at  Southbury.  Who  told  you 
that  I  am  spending  the  winter  here  I  know  not,  but  I  shall 
probably  not  do  it,  unless  I  conclude  to  spend  my  life  here. 
About  three  weeks  ago,  I  received  an  invitation  to  settle 
here,  and  I  am  to  give  an  answer  within  three  weeks  more. 
Some  say  it  is  my  duty  to  accept  the  invitation  ;  some  say 
it  is  not ;  so  that,  let  me  do  which  I  may,  I  shall  not  do  my 
■duty,  in  the  view  of  some,  for  I  cannot  conform  to  the  opin- 
ion of  both.  I  am  in  a  great  strait.  May  the  divine  Head 
of  the  Church  direct  me  to  such  a  decision,  as  shall  most 
promote  the  interests  of  his  kingdom.  I  think  I  feel  willing 
to  do  what  impartial  judges  might  say  I  ought  to  do.  But 
where  shall  such  be  found,  who  are  at  the  same  time  suffi- 
ciently acquainted  with  my  circumstances,  and  those  of  the 
people  here  1  After  all,  I  see  not  but  that  I  must  decide  for 
myself,  according  to  my  own  convictions  of  duty,  in  view  of 
the  heart-searching  trial  of  the  last  day.  I  have  an  inclina- 
tion to  stay  here.  1  have  been  wandering  to  and  fro,  so  long, 
that  1  am  strongly  averse  to  packing  up  my  little  all  into  my 


MEMOIR.  55 

little  trunk,  and  moving  again,  nobody  knows  where.  This 
feeling,  however,  ought  not  to  have  much  influence.  But 
enough  of  this  subject.  Mention  it  not  out  of  doors.  You 
will  know  the  result  before  many  weeks  are  past. 

At  a  late  minister's  meeting  in  this  region,  I  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  your  old  friend  Mr.  B. He  appeared  in 

fine  health  and  spirits.     He  had  just  returned  from  a  kind  of 

missionary  visit   to  B, and  talked  much  of  what  revivals 

are  doing  to  Socinianism.  At  the  minister's  meeting,  a  ser- 
mon was  preached  on  the  "  year  of  the  Lord's  recompenses 
for  the  controversy  of  Zion."  At  the  time  for  criticising  the 
sermon,  your  friend  became  quite  eloquent  in  his  way.  His 
whole  face  kindled  to  a  glow,  and  his  eye  sparkled  with  the 
fire  of  genius  ;  as  in  speaking  of  the  overturning  and  dashing 
together  of  nations  in  Europe  and  Asia,  he  remarked,  that  the 
Almighty  will  come  in  the  day  of  his  vengeance,  and  "  break 
up  old  marble,  the  repose  of  princes,"  and  sweep  away  his  en- 
emies, and  their  refuges  of  lies  with  them,  till  the  way  is  pre- 
pared for  the  universal  estabhshment  of  his  own  kingdom  of 
righteousness  and  peace. 

I  have  recently  been  to  B, to  attend  the  Installation  of 

my  right  hand  friend.  Being  sent  for,  once  and  again,  to 
preach  the  sermon,  I  set  off'  in  a  chaise,  and  hurried  along 
through  snow  drifts,  and  mud,  and  rain,  but  after  all  failed  of 
getting  there  in  season,  in  consequence  of  being  turned  back, 
by  the  rise  of  water  in  some  of  the  streams,  crossing  the  road. 
But  I  made  a  pleasant  visit  of  several  days.  Mr.  N,— ^- —  was 
there,  at  work  at  his  Hymn  Book.  He  has  a  fund  of  knowl- 
edge, derived  from  his  observation,  compared  with  the  word 
of  God.  This  makes  his  conversation  highly  interesting  and 
instructive  to  his  christian  friends,  in  whose  society  he  appears 
to  take  as  much  real  delight,  as  any  man  I  ever  saw.  ' 

My  health  is  good,  except  that  I  have  something  of  the 
dyspepsy  now  and  then,  but  not  enough  to  make  me  see  vis- 
ions of  unearthly  beings,  and  imagine  that  I  converse  with 
them  face  to  face.  You  will  understand  this  allusion,  if  you 
have  seen  the  article  on  Swedenborgianism,  in  a  late  number 


50 


MEMOIR. 


of  the  Christian  Spectator.  I  have  just  been  conversing  for 
two  hours,  with  one  of  the  converts  to  this  system  of  fanati- 
cism. He  knows  that  there  is  a  God,  because  it  has  been 
revealed  to  him.  Milhons  of  angels  and  spirits  of  departed 
men,  are  around  him  every  day;  and  he  sees  them.  It  has 
been  his  great  business  and  delight,  for  seven  years,  to  talk 
and  sing  with  them.  He  has  conversed  with  all  the  kings  of 
England,  with  all  the  great  men  of  antiquity,  that  he  has 
read  of,  and  even  w  ith  the  giants  of  patriarchal  times.  The 
winged  spirits  of  httle  children,  too,  are  among  the  multitude, 
and  what  is  not  at  all  strange,  they  sometimes  read  in  Dil- 
worth's  Spelling  Book,  in  classes  as  at  school.  These  spirits 
are  all  dressed  in  white,  they  come  in  rows  as  if  strung  on 
strings;  and  when  they  first  come  into  sight,  they  generally 
repeat  the  Lord's  prayer.  They  delight  in  prayer  as  much 
as  we  do,  and  he  guesses  much  more.  When  I  pray  in  the 
family,  he  interprets,  or  communicates  my  words  to  them,  for 
which  they  seem  very  grateful,  as  the  meaning  comes  very 
hard  to  them  in  consequence  of  passing  through  two.  They 
visit  him  at  night,  and  make  his  room  as  light  as  day;  and 
what  is  odd  enough,  they  often  tuck  up  his  bed,  as  no  mortal 
ever  tucked  it  up.  Sometimes  those  appear  who  have  been 
asleep  so  long  that  they  have  forgotten  their  own  names  ;  and 
so  he  has  to  tell  them.  They  often  give  liim  a  message  to 
their  relatives  and  neighbours,  who  are  yet  in  the  flesh;  but 
he  never  delivers  it,  because  he  is  afraid  that  people  will 
think  him  insane,  or  under  the  influence  of  a  diseased  imagin- 
ation, which  according  to  his  frequent  assurance,  is  in  no  de- 
gree the  case.  And  the  man  really  appears  perfectly  ration- 
al on  every  other  subject,  and  very  intelligent  and  pleasant 
withal.  While  conversing  on  this  subject  he  appeared  so 
sincere,  and  serious,  that  you  could  not  have  the  heart  to 
laugh  in  his  face ;  and  as  to  reasoning  with  him,  you  might  as 
well  have  reasoned  with  one  of  Ossian's  ghosts,  moving 
straight  forward  out  of  sight  and  out  of  hearing,  in  the  midst 
of  stormy  clouds.  The  testimony  of  Moses  and  the  prophets, 
is  now  superseded  by  that  of  millions  risen  from  the  dead. 


MEMOIR.  57 

By  the  way,  were  not  our  first  parents  Swedenborgians? 
Our  honourable  friend  Milton,  who  knew  all  about  it,  and 
was  himself  poetically  a  Swedenborgian,  makes  father  Adam 
say  to  mother  Eve,  not  only  that, 

*  Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep,' 

but  also, 

'  How  often  from  the  steep 

Of  echoing  hill  or  thicket,  have  we  heard 
Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air, 
Sole,  or  responsive  each  to  other's  note, 
Singing  their  great  Creator.' 

This  reference  to  Milton,  puts  to  flight  all  these  visions  of 
"airy  nothing,"  and  brings  to  remembrance  your  kind  wish, 
that  I  were  with  you  again  to  read  and  comment. 

I  wonder  what  Mr.  T.  finds  to  do  this  winter,  now  Mr.  O. 
is  gone.  I  suppose  the  people  will  not  go  forward  and  settle 
a  minister  Mobile  Mr.  O.  is  absent.  If  you  don't  take  heed 
this  engaging  a  supply  for  a  year,  will  prepare  the  way  for 
perpetual  desolation.  A  kind  remembrance  to  Mr.  T.  and 
his  sisters,  Maiy  Anne,  and  little  Charly.  I  spell  Mary  Anne 
wuth  a  final  e,  because  it  makes  the  word  look  more  classical, 
and  more  like  the  name  of  a  queen,  a  very  good  reason  in 
these  days  of  the  universal  reign  of  the  Holy  Alliance. 

Yours,  &;c. 

C.W. 

Southhury,  May  10,  1824. 
The  sad  intelligence  in  your  letter  came  like  a  thunder- 
clap in  a  clear  sky.  I  had  not  before  heard  a  whisper  re- 
specting your  afflictions.  I  had  supposed  that  you  were  all 
passing  along,  from  one  day  to  another,  as  pleasantly  as  ever. 
So  little  do  we  know,  while  we  are  happy  ourselves,  what 
absent  friends  may  be  enduring.     It  would  seem  as  if  this 


58  MEMOIR. 

were  no  world  to  be  merry  in.  Happy  we  may  be  :  but  om-s 
should  be  a  sober  happiness — a  happiness  consistent  with  re- 
flection, and  prepared  for  son*owful  tidings — a  happiness, 
whose  foundation  is  truth,  whose  source  is  God,  and  whose 
end  is  heaven. 

From  what  you  say  respecting  yourself,  and  from  what  I 
heard  last  week  in  New-Haven,  I  conclude  that  you  are  now 
fast  recovering.  What  you  say  of  H — 's  situation  expresses 
all  a  mother's  tender  love  and  foreboding  anxiety.  It  goes  to 
my  heart  and  thrills  through  my  frame,  to  hear  you  say,  "I 
feel  a  great  and  increasing  solicitude  for  my  poor  H — :  he 
seems  to  be  restless  and  unhappy."  There  is  something  most 
deeply  interesting  in  hidden  sorrow — something  that  makes 
the  most  powerful  appeal  to  our  sympathies.  Why  that  rest- 
lessness ?  Why  that  sudden  rising  up  and  sitting  down, — that 
walking  the  room  with  folded  arms  and  eyes  fixed  on  vacan- 
cy? Why  that  heaving  sigh  and  that  starting  tear?  Thou 
poor  child  of  grief,  there  is  a  voice  that  is  now  calling  in  ac- 
cents of  divine  compassion,  "Come  unto  me  and  I  will  give 
thee  rest."  O  that  word  rest,  how  sweet  and  how  full  of  mean- 
ing as  it  comes  from  the  lips  of  the  Redeemer!  Here  is  rest 
from  the  burden  of  guilt,  the  annoyance  of  temptation,  the 
fear  of  death,  and  the  gnawings  of  the  worm  that  never  dies. 
Here  is  rest  from  the  vexations  and  labours  of  the  world,  rest 
in  the  arms  of  infinite  love,  rest  eternal  in  the  paradise  of  God. 
Who  that  feels  the  need,  can  refuse  to  accept  of  it  ? 

I  rejoice  to  hear  that  you  found  such  support  and  peace, 
when  your  heart  and  flesh  so  utterly  failed,  and  left  you  pow- 
erless as  an  infant,  in  the  hands  of  the  great  arbiter  of  life 
and  death.  What  can  you  desire  for  your  children,  but  that 
interest  in  a  Saviour's  mercy,  wliich  will  yield  them  like  sup- 
port and  peace,  when  they  too  are  brought  into  the  deep, 
and  troubled  waters  of  affliction.  What  greater  happiness 
can  you  wish  for  on  earth,  than  to  see  them  sitting  down  with 
you,  at  the  table  of  a  Redeemer,  whose  service  is  all  their 
delight  ?  May  this  happiness  soon  be  yours ;    then  the  fears 


MEMOIR.  ^ 

and  sorrowings,  that  you  speak  of,  will  flee  away,  or  lose  all 
their  gloom  and  bitterness. 

During  the  summer  of  1824,  Mr.  Wilcox  devoted  his  leis- 
ure hours  to  the  composition  of  a  poem,  which  he  pronounced 
before  the  Society  of  *.  B.  K.  at  Yale  College.  This  poem 
with  some  additions,  the  last  literary  labours  of  his  life,  is 
presented  to  the  public  in  this  volume. 

About  this  time  he  complied  with  an  invitation  to  preach  in 
the  North  Society  of  Hartford,  as  a  candidate  for  settle- 
ment. In  October,  this  newly  organized  church  and  society 
gave  him  a  call  to  become  their  minister.  The  following 
brief  extract  from  a  letter  written  soon  after,  will  show  liis 
feelings  on  the  occasion. 

Hartford,  Oct.  5,  1824. 

Last  Wednesday,   I  received  a  call  from  the  North 

Church  and  Society  to  become  their  minister.  Pray  much 
for  me,  that  I  may  not  be  deserted  of  God  in  this  solemn 
crisis  of  my  life.  I  feel  that  I  am  standing  on  delicate 
ground.  Much  is  expected  from  me.  A  congregation  is  to 
be  gathered,  a  church  to  be  built  up.  Much  is  at  stake.  Who 
is  sufficient  for  these  things  ?  I  need  a  great  increase  c^ 
grace. 

In  December  1824,  he  was  ordained,  and  we  are  to  con- 
template him  in  a  new  and  highly  responsible  station.  From 
his  first  appearance  among  this  people,  as  a  spiritual  guide 
and  teacher,  a  cordial  attachment  commenced,  which  in- 
creased until  his  separation  from  them,  and  then  was  by  no 
means  diminished. 

In  his  intercourse  with  his  people  as  a  minister,  he  united 
faithfulness  with  the  most  delicate  propriety.  He  was  wel- 
comed in  every  family,  as  an  intimate  friend,  in  whom  every 
heart  felt  interested,  and  reposed  confidence,  and  all  his  con- 
versation was  such  as  to  secure  respect  and  affection.  No 
weak  places  were  found  in  his  character,  nothing  in  his  con- 


tiO  MEMOIR. 

versation  in  the  family,  or  social  circle,  to  diminish  the  im- 
pressions made  by  his  preaching.  He  was  eminently  happy 
in  relation  to  the  people  of  his  charge  ;  he  felt  at  home,  and 
had  all  the  tokens  of  kindness  from  them,  that  could  render 
his  labours  pleasant,  and  encourage  him  to  preach,  with  plain- 
ness, the  great  truths  of  revelation. 

The  pressure  of  duties,  and  the  deep  interest  which  he  felt 
in  the  performance  of  them,  soon  began  to  exhaust  his  strength 
and  overpower  his  feeble  constitution.  Ilis  letters,  disclo- 
sing some  of  his  feelings  while  a  Pastor,  and  the  trials  which 
he  endured  and  anticipated  from  his  infirmities,  will  be  read 
with  interest. 

Hartford,  January  20,  1825. 
Why  is  it  that  you  are  so  often,  and  so  severely  chas- 
tised ?  If  the  Lord  chasteneth  whom  he  loveth,  does  he  not 
sometimes  proportion  the  measure  of  his  chastisement  to  that 
of  his  love  ?  If  you  will  not  allow  that  your  great  afflictions 
are  proofs  that  God's  love  towards  you  is  great,  I  trust  that 
you  will  live  to  see  them  made  the  means  of  promoting  your 
love  to  him,  till  it  becomes  great.  What  a  vale  of  tears  is 
^his  world  !  I  have  thought  much  of  this  truth  since  my 
last  visit  to  Vermont.  For  a  day  or  two  after  I  reached  the 
town  in  which  my  parents  reside,  I  felt  such  a  weight  upon 
my  spirits,  in  view  of  the  sad  changes  among  the  families  of 
my  acquaintance,  during  an  absence  of  six  years,  that  I 
could  hardly  be  happy  under  my  parental  roof.  Six  heads 
of  families  had  died  out  of  the  eight  families  nearest  my  fa- 
ther's. Besides  these  deaths,  there  had  been  others,  and  two 
others  had  been  excommunicated  from  the  church,  and  had 
broken  the  hearts  of  their  Mddowed  parents.  Both  of  my 
parents  had  been  brought  apparently  near  to  the  borders  of 
the  grave ;  and  so  had  one  of  my  brothers,  but  they  were  pre- 
served. 

Thus  you  see  that  your  situation  is  not  peculiar.  You 
never  thought  that  it  Avas.  You  do  not  need  the  philosopher's 
consolation,  that  yours  is  the  common  lot  of  humanity.  You 


MEMOIR.  CI 

have  comfort  far  above  this.  When  you  are  in  heaviness, 
you  think  upon  God.  What  time  you  are  afraid,  you  put 
your  trust  in  him.     lie  will  never  leave  you, 

I  rejoice  to  hear  that  Mr.  T has  been  preserved  from 

the  mental  derangement,  which  he  so  much  fears,  whenever 
he  becomes  unusually  ill.  This  must  be  a  great  blessing  in  the 

midst  of  all  your  afflictions,  and  the  convalescence  of  H 

must  be  another  ;  another  must  be  the  attentions  of  the 
kindest  of  daughters  and  sisters.  Thus  there  is  many  a  drop 
of  sweetness  in  your  bitter  cup.  The  gloom  of  your  situation 
is  cheered  by  many  a  ray  of  comfoit,  shining  directly  from 
heaven,  and  by  many  more  reflected  from  the  earth  around 
you.  Why  then  may  you  not  be  happy.  You  are  so,  I 
trust,  without  any  counsel  or  exhortation  of  mine,  when  I 
myself  need  support  and  consolation  far  above  what  I  enjoy. 

I  tremble  at  the  step  that  I  have  taken  in  consenting  to 
become  a  minister  of  the  gospel  in  this  city.  There  are  al- 
ready moments  wJien  I  feel  as  if  I  should,  at  no  distant  peri- 
od, sink  under  the  weight  of  labours  and  trials  that  is  coming 
upon  me,  and  pressing  every  day  more  and  more  heavily.  I 
know  not  what  is  before  me,  but  I  have  reason  to  fear  much 
evil  from  the  state  of  my  heart,  and  my  sad  want  of  ministe- 
rial qualifications  in  other  respects.  This  is  not  affected  hu- 
mility, nor  is  it  real  humility.  It  is  no  more  nor  less  than  a 
plain  statement  of  the  truth.  My  health  is  at  present  quite 
good,  but  the  time  to  try  it  will  come,  when  my  present  stock 
of  sermons  is  gone.     I  must  be  up  and  doing. 

March  14,  1825.  Of  my  own  health,  I  can  only  say,  that  it 
is  just  good  enough  to  enable  me  to  drag  along  with  my  bur- 
den. But  this  burden  is  becoming  heavier  eveiy  day  ;  and  I 
fear  it  will  ere  long  crush  me.  My  stock  of  sermons  runs 
low.  To  write  new  ones,  as  fast  as  I  want  them,  or  rather  as 
fast  as  my  people  want  them,  draws  prodigiously  upon  my 
strength.  There  are  times  when  I  walk  my  room,  and  in 
the  anguish  of  my  spirit  cry  out,  "What  shall  I  do  ?"  I  have 
preached  twice  every  Sabbath  since  I  was  settled,  except  one. 
I  had  more  of  my  palpitation  yesterday,  than  I  have  had  be- 


62  MEMOIR. 

fore  for  a  year  or  two.     This  spring  and  summer  will  be  the 
trying  season  with  me. 

We  have  been  hoping  for  a  revival,  and  one  or  two  have 
given  some  evidence  of  conversion,  but  now  all  are  again  as 
cold  and  lifeless  as  ever.  Pray  for  us.  O  for  a  heart  to  take 
delight  in  my  work.  It  is  hard  for  a  poet  to  love  the  labours 
of  the  muiistry. 

Mr.  Wilcox  was  undoubtedly  injudicious  in  expending  his 
strength.  His  sermons  were  prepared  with  great  care — not 
with  too  much, — for  no  minister  ever  preached  too  good  a 
sermon  ;  but  those  of  Mr.  Wilcox  were  long,  and  the  deep 
feeling  w  ith  which  they  were  delivered,  almost  uniformly  ex- 
hausted him.  He  might  not  have  been  sufficiently  attentive 
to  regular  exercise.  When  he  exchanged  with  neighbour- 
ing clergymen,  he  generally  preached  his  longest  sermons  in 
the  pulpits  of  his  brethren,  and  thus,  instead  of  making  liis  ex- 
changes subsei-vient  to  relaxation,  he  more  commonly  return- 
ed with  an  entire  prostration  of  his  strength. 

Hartford,  June  22,  1825. 

I  am  the  most  dilatory  of  all  letter  writers.  No  one  else 
could  let  such  letters  as  yours,  lie  unanswered  for  weeks  and 
months  together.  It  will  hardly  do  for  me  to  plead  that  I 
have  been  absent  for  several  weeks,  on  a  visit  to  New- York 
and  Philadelphia,  for  I  might  have  written  you  from  both  of 
those  cities,  and  given  you  some  account  of  the  sublime,  and 
beautiful,  aud  wonderful,  that  I  heard  and  saw  in  the  natural, 
the  intellectual,  and  the  moral  world.  But  it  is  all  gone  like 
a  dream  when  one  awaketh. 

I  have  returned,  and  resumed  my  labours  again,  but  with 
very  little  hope  of  being  able  to  continue  them  long.  My  nights 
are  sleepless,  after  preaching.  My  strength  and  my  spirits 
fail ;  and  there  are  times  when  I  am  well  nigh  ready  to  give 
up  the  ministry,  at  once,  and  go  on  to  a  farm  to  get  some  har- 
dihood of  constitution.  I  think  it  highly  probable,  that  I 
shall  have  to  come  to  this,  at  no  very  distant  period. 


MEMOIR.  63 

July  2.  After  a  week's  interruption,  I  sit  down  to  add  a  lit- 
tle more  to  my  journal  of  a  letter.  Last  Sabbath  I  attempt- 
ed to  preach,  bnt  after  proceeding  ten  minutes,  with  my  ser- 
mon, I  was  obliged  to  stop,  to  prevent  fainting  from  the  palpi- 
tation. I  have  studied  none  this  week,  and  know  not  when  I 
shall  begin  again.  My  people  are  urgent  in  their  request,  that 
I  should  journey  for  two  or  three  weeks,  and  visit  the  Springs 
and  the  sea-side.  I  shall  probably  go  somewhere,  next  week, 
in  search  of  health,  though  1  have  no  hope  of  deriving  more 
than  a  temporary  benefit,  from  a  temporaiy  suspension  of  the 
labours  of  the  ministry.  Preaching,  and  close  study,  are  two 
just  the  worst  things  in  the  world  for  my  complaint. 

In  the  summer  of  1825,  his  health  became  so  feeble  that  he 
was  obliged  to  seek  relaxation  by  leaving  his  charge.  He 
was  absent  about  two  months,  in  which  time  he  visited  his  pa- 
rents. This  was  his  last  interview  with  them.  Some  ex- 
tracts will  now  be  made  from  his  letters,  disclosing  distinctly 
his  fears,  his  trials,  and  his  hopes. 

Sept.  16,  1825. 

Yesterday  I  reached  Hartford.  To-day  I  have  been  visit- 
ing the  sick  and  the  afflicted  ;  and  this  evening,  I  am  writing 
to  you.  I  have  lived  so  at  random  for  the  last  two  months^ 
in  stages,  and  steam-boats,  and  hotels,  and  boarding-houses, 
without  domestic  order  or  quiet,  not  to  say  family  religion, 
that  I  feel  most  unfit  to  enter  at  once  into  the  spirit  of  my 
many,  and  arduous  duties.  Two  months  more,  spent  like  the 
past,  would  ruin  me.  You  may  well  think  that  I  have  but  lit- 
tle piety,  to  bear  so  short  a  trial  no  better.  And  such  is  the 
fact.  I  have  indeed  but  little,  if  I  have  even  that.  I  hope  my 
labours  will  soon  be  performed  with  a  spirit  more  congenial 
than  at  present. 

Oct.  17. — A  chief  of  the  Sandwich  Islands,  says,  when  he 
receives  a  letter  from  his  sister,  he  sits  down  alone  and  reads 
it,  and  it  is  just  as  if  his  sister  whispered  in  his  ear.  Let  me 
then  whisper  to  you  that  1  am  almost  discouraged,  in  regard 


64 


MEMOIR. 


to  the  "  physical"  state  of  my  heart,  after  which  you  enquire. 
Though  not  as  bad  as  its  moral  state,  it  is  bad  enough  ;  and 
what  is  W' orse,  I  see  not  that  there  is  any  prospect  of  its  grow- 
ing better,  while  I  continue  to  preach.  I  exert  myself  to 
keep  up  my  spirits  as  well  as  I  can.  I  tell  no  one  around 
me  the  half  that  I  suffer,  for  it  would  do  no  good.  I  am  de- 
termined to  hold  out  as  long  as  I  can,  with  all  proper  attention 
to  diet,  and  exercise,  and  relaxation.  My  prospects  are  by  no 
means  flattering.  1  have  frequently,  for  the  last  fortnight, 
when  I  have  thought  of  them,  felt  a  painful  trembling  ;  and 
more  than  once  the  anguish  of  my  spirit  has  been  such  as  to 
wring  from  me  the  reluctant  tear.  This  has  been,  when  I 
have  found  myself  dreading  the  labour  of  preaching,  after  be- 
ing exhausted  with  the  labours  of  the  study,  during  a  week  of 
more  than  ordinary  business.  I  can  study  hard  tlii'ough  the 
week,  or  preach  on  the  Sabbath,  either  of  them  alone  ;  but  to 
do  both,  is  more  than  I  can  bear  without  groaning,  and  com- 
ing frequently  to  the  very  verge  of  sinking.  I  know  that  I 
need  a  stronger  faith,  and  a  higher  tone  of  piety.  With 
these,  I  might  preach  with  the  palpitation,  and  suffer  less 
from  the  exhaustion  of  animal  spirits,  if  not  of  bodily  strength. 
But  I  must  speak  of  myself  as  /  am,  and  not  as  what  I  might 
be  in  body,  if  I  was  what  I  ought  to  be  in  soul.  What  will 
become  of  me  I  know  not.  What  shall  I  do  ?  Give  up 
preaching,  and  have  good  health  ?  Or  continue  it,  and  live 
on,  at  this  poor  dying  rate  1  Perhaps  you  w  ill  hardly  dare 
to  advise  me.  Who  then  will  do  it  ?  If  I  must  decide  en- 
tirely for  myself,  I  shall  take  the  latter  course,  and  leave  the 

event  with  the  great  Arbiter  of  life  and  death. 

Nov.  27,  1825. — I  have  been  for  the  past  week,  more  seri- 
ously sick  than  I  have  been  for  ten  years.  I  preached  half  a  day 
last  Sabbath,  and  caught  a  cold  which  seemed  to  settle  in  the 
region  of  the  heart,  where  there  had  been  for  some  time  so 
much  unnatural  muscular  excitement.  This  produced  great 
soreness,  and  frequently  very  intense  pain,  particularly  when 
coughing.  I  must  resort  to  some  more  efficient  remedies,  or 
I  shall  probably  not  be  well  very  soon.     May  God  be  my  re- 


MEMOIR.  t)d 

fuge  in  this  day  of  trouble.  This  morning,  I  told  the  physi- 
cian, that  I  had  almost  all  the  symptoms  of  passing  by  a  slow 
fever  into  a  decline.  He  made  no  reply,  but  set  himself  about 
writing  a  recipe.  I  have  some  serious  fears  as  to  the  result 
of  my  sickness.  I  fear  that  I  am  neither  ready  nor  willing  to 
die.  But  why  art  thou  cast  down,  O  my  soul  ;  why  art  thou 
disquieted  within  me  ?     Hope  thou  in  God. 

Dec.  1. — Last  night  was  the  most  comfortable  of  any  since 
I  was  taken  ill.  I  think  myself  decidedly  on  the  gaining 
hand,  in  almost  every  respect.  Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul, 
and  forget  not  all  his  benefits.  I  shall,  in  all  probabihty,  ask 
a  dismission  soon  after  I  am  able  to  get  about  again.  I  cannot 
think  of  rushing  again  into  the  labours,  which  will  so  certain- 
ly be  followed  by  consequences  like  those  which  I  am  now 
suffering.  I  have  now  no  remaining  doubt,  as  to  my  inabil- 
ity to  perform  the  duties  of  a  settled  minister.  It  is  quite 
manifest,  that  the  interests  of  my  church  and  society  have 
suffered,  on  account  of  my  being  absent  so  much,  and  giving 
up  extra  meetings.  It  is  the  complaint  of  every  one,  that 
the  state  of  vital  religion  among  us  has  long  been  very  low. 
It  is  so  in  the  other  churches,  as  well  as  in  mine  ;  and  there- 
fore I  am  not  regarded  as  particularly  the  guilty  cause. 

Dec.  15. — Thus  you  see  that  my  society  are  quite  spirited, 
and  are  prosperous  in  a  pecuniary  respect.  This  will  very 
much  lessen  the  trial  of  leaving  them.  A  trial  it  will  be,  in- 
deed, to  leave  my  dear  church  and  congregation,  and  leave 
the  ministiy,  and  leave  so  delightful  a  situation  as  mine,  and 
cast  myself  again  upon  the  wide  world,  without  employment, 
and  without  a  home  ;  but  I  see  not  that  I  can  avoid  it.  With- 
out employment,  however,  I  will  not  be,  if  God  has  given  me 
talents,  that  I  can  in  any  way  use  in  his  service.  A  great 
variety  of  talents  is  needed  in  this  day  of  universal  action  and 
improvement.  But  I  will  say  no  more  on  this  subject  in  this 
place,  lest  I  expose  my  vanity.  I  hope  you  are  very  happy, 
without  any  thing  to  disquiet  you.  But  you  too  must  have 
your  trials.  It  is  no  doubt  best  for  us  all,  that  we  should  find 
thorns  enough  on  our  pillow,  to  keep  us  from   sleeping  life 

9 


66  MEMOIR. 

away,  and  waking  at  last,  unprepared  for  eternity.  May 
your  sorrows  always  be  as  few,  and  as  light,  as  your  spiritual 
safety  and  prosperity  will  permit. 

Jan.  31,  1826. — You  see  I  have  once  more  reached  my 
home,  if  home  there  can  be,  without  the  pleasures,  and  en- 
dearing associations  of  domestic  life.  For  just  twenty  years, 
I  have  been  a  sojourner  in  as  many  different  towns ;  and  what 
wonder  if  I  feel  very  much  a  citizen  of  the  world  ?  I  begin 
to  feel  somewhat  sad,  as  I  draw  near  to  the  time,  when  I  am 
to  undergo  the  last  trial  I  shall  make  of  my  ability  to  endure 
the  labours  of  a  settled  minister.  But  it  is  best  to  wait  in 
silence  for  the  issue.  I  hope  God  will  prepare  me  for  it, 
and  glorify  himself  by  it,  whatever  may  become  of  me. 

March  4. — I  have  presented  a  communication  to  my  soci- 
ety, the  substance  of  which  is,  that  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  resign 
my  charge,  believing  that  the  circumstances  of  the  society, 
and  church  connected  with  it,  are  such  as  to  require  much 
more  labour  for  their  best  good,  than  I  am  able  to  perform. 
This  communication  was  not  written  without  many  prayers 
and  tears.  Nor  was  it  written  without  long  and  serious  de- 
liberation. I  have,  however,  been  persuaded  to  suspend  my 
request  for  a  short  indefinite  period,  to  give  time  for  further 
satisfaction  in  regard  to  my  health,  and,  if  necessary,  to  find  a 
successor.  I  had  no  expectation  of  finding  such  unanimity  in 
the  wish  for  me  to  stay  longer.  My  communication  has  call- 
ed forth  a  stronger  expression  of  attachment,  than  I  had  sup- 
posed to  have  existed. 

To  exhibit  still  more  distinctly  his  motives,  for  requesting 
a  dismission,  the  communication  to  which  he  refers  is  here 
inserted. 

To  the  North  Ecclesiastical   Society  in  Hartford,  at  their 
annual  meeting  March  1,  1826. 

Brethren  and  Friends, 

You  are  all  aware  of  the  feeble  and  precarious  state  of 
my  health.  During  the  year  which  is  now  brought  to  a  close, 
I  have  been  able  to  preach  but  just  half  of  the  Sabbaths,  and 
to  perform  but  very  little  labour  bcsidei     The  nature  of  my 


MEMOIR.  63^ 

complaint  is  such,  that  there  is  no  good  reason  to  hope,  that 
I  shall  be  radically  and  permanently  better,  while  I  attempt 
to  pursue  the  united  labours  of  the  study  and  the  pulpit.  I 
have  myself  no  expectation,  that  if  I  remain  your  minister  the 
next  year,  I  shall  be  able  to  do  any  more,  than  I  have  done 
during  the  past.  But  to  me  it  appears  abundantly  evident, 
that  the  circumstances  of  this  new  society,  and  of  the  church 
connected  with  it,  absolutely  require  that  much  more  should 
be  done.  I  cannot  then  avoid  the  conclusion,  that  it  is  my 
duty  to  resign  my  charge.  It  seems  to  me  a  duty,  which  I 
owe  to  you,  to  your  families,  to  the  church,  and  the  congre- 
gation of  immortals  that  assemble  with  you  in  the  house  of 
God.  It  is  affecting  to  think  how  little  I  have  been  able  to 
do  for  the  salvation  of  my  people.  Indeed  the  thought  has 
been  at  times,  and  is  now,  too  oppressive  to  be  endured. 

It  may  perhaps  be  the  opinion  of  some,  that,  while  I  am 
able  to  go  through  with  the  mere  delivery  of  a  sermon,  I 
ought  to  continue  the  trial  of  my  strength,  in  hope  of  its  in- 
creasing. To  me,  however,  it  seems  clear  that  the  year  and 
a  half,  which  I  have  spent  with  you,  has  been  a  trial  long 
enough,  if  not  too  long,  for  the  best  good  of  my  people.  I 
must  also  be  permitted  to  say,  that  I  prize  your  respect  and 
affection  too  highly,  to  be  willing  to  be  almost  a  burden  on 
your  hands,  till  I  lose  or  begin  to  lose  both,  especially  when 
without  their  continuance  I  could  neither  be  happy  nor  useful 
as  your  minister. 

Perhaps  this  communication  may  appear  to  be  hasty.  To 
explain  this  appearance,  it  is  necessary  to  observe,  that  it  did 
not  occur  to  me,  till  the  day  before  yesterday,  that  this  meet- 
ing of  the  society  was  so  early  in  the  month.  The  subject  of 
the  communication  has  been  one  of  daily  thought  and  prayer 
for  two  months ;  and  this  meeting  has  been  expected  as  the 
proper  time  for  it  to  be  made  public. 

I  have  been  with  you  in  weakness,  and  in  fear,  and  in 
much  trembling.  And  it  was  in  my  heart  to  live  and  die 
with  you.  But  it  seems  the  will  of  God  that  it  shall  not  be 
so.     In  that  will  I  would  humbly  acquiesce. 


(53 


MEMOIR. 


It  is  therefore  my  sincere  and  earnest  request,  that  you 
will  unite  with  me  in  calling  a  council,  to  take  into  view  the 
existing  facts  of  the  case,  and  to  dissolve  the  relation  between 
us,  if  they  judge  it  best  for  the  interests  of  the  society  and 
the  church  connected  with  it,  and  for  the  great  cause  of  truth 
and  righteousness,  and  the  salvation  of  souls. 

Wishing  that  grace,  mercy,  and  peace,  from  God  the  Fa- 
ther, and  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  may  be  multiplied  to  you 
and  yours  continually,  I  subscribe  myself. 

Your  affectionate  Pastor, 

Carlos  Wilcox. 

March  28. What-  a  serious  work  is  that  of  a  minister 

of  Christ !  Since  writing  the  paragraph  above,  I  have  been  to 
the  bed-side  of  a  dying  parishioner.  I  had  but  just  finished 
the  last  line,  when  my  door  opened  suddenly,  and  I  was  re- 
quested to  visit  a  lady  immediately,  who  was  but  just  alive. 
This  was  the  first  intimation  I  had  received  of  her  sickness. 
Through  what  a  heart-rending  scene  have  I  passed  since  I 
began  this  letter,  only  an  hour  ago.  I  was  then  in  a  playful 
mood,  though  greatly  fatigued.  Now  I  feel  a  great  heavi- 
ness of  spirit,  accompanied  with  the  exhaustion  of  sympa- 
thetic grief  This  is  the  fifth  time  within  a  month,  that  a 
messenger  has  called  me  away  from  the  study,  or  the  social 
circle,  to  the  bed-side  of  the  dying.  But  I  am  too  much  de- 
pressed to  dwell  on  these  sad  scenes.  In  several  of  them, 
however,  there  have  been  circumstances  full  of  comfort. 

May  20. — I  shall  leave  Hartford  next  week  unless  my 
people  insist  upon  having  a  farewell  sermon.  I  am  very 
unwilling  to  preach  one,  as  it  can  only  awaken  sympathies  to 
be  indulged  to  very  little  purpose.  I  find  my  interest  in  their 
welfare  growing  stronger,  as  I  am  about  to  leave  them. 

To  another  correspondent  he  expressed  his  feelings  with 
still  more  particularity. 

June  10. — You  have  heard  that  I  am  no  longer  minister  of 
the  North  Church  in  Hartford.     When  the  tie  was  cut,  I  felt 


MEMOIR.  Wi 

such  a  shock  as  I  never  felt  before.  But  I  trust  that  all  will 
be  ordered  well  for  me,  and  for  this  Church  and  Society. 
It  has  been  a  difficult  thing  to  get  away  from  tliis  dear  people  ; 
and  nothing  but  the  strongest  conviction  of  my  inability  to  do 
what  ought  to  be  done  for  them,  could  have  carried  me 
through  it.  The  Society  voted,  unanimously,  to  grant  me 
leave  of  absence  for  a  year,  with  a  continuance  of  my  sala- 
ry. But  as  I  could  give  them  no  reason  to  hope,  that"  at  the 
end  of  that  period,  1  should  return  with  health  permanently 
established,  I  could  not  conscientiously  accept  of  their  pro- 
posal. After  all  this,  a  remonstrance,  with  thirty-five  names, 
was  laid  before  the  Council,  on  the  ground  that  they  were 
willing  to  run  the  risk  of  the  proposed  trial  of  a  year's  ab- 
sence. I  submitted  it  entirely  to  the  Council  to  say  what 
ought  to  be  done,  and  they  dismissed  me.  Something  was 
said  among  my  people  about  paying  back  to  me  the  two 
hundred  dollars  which  I  gave  to  their  funds,  and  the  one  hun- 
dred which  I  paid  for  supply  of  preaching  in  my  sick- 
ness. But  at  length  this  course  has  been  adopted ;  to  let 
my  name  stand  on  their  records  as  giving  the  two  hundred 
dollars,  and  to  remunerate  me,  by  a  voluntary  subscription, 
which  has  swelled  into  a  present  of  five  hundred  dollars. 

What  will  now  become  of  me,  I  cannot  tell.  I  have  some 
expectation  of  spending  the  summer  at  Newport,  for  the  bene- 
fit of  bathing  in  the  surf,  and  enjoying  the  sea-breezes.  Per- 
haps I  may  preach  some, — perhaps  I  may  write  some  poet- 
ry. But  all  is  uncertain.  I  feel  that  I  am  once  more  afloat 
in  the  world,  and  the  feeling  is  at  times  sufficiently  uncomfort- 
able. I  hope  yet  to  do  some  good  in  the  pulpit,  and  with  my 
pen,  if  God  spare  my  life  ;  but  I  never  expect  to  be  again  so 
pleasantly  situated  as  I  have  been  in  Hartford. 

June  20. — I  am  rejoiced  to  find  that  you  remember  me  in 
my  wanderings,  and  continue  to  take  an  interest  in  all  my 
concerns.  I  hope  you  will  not  forget  the  dear  people  that  I 
have  left,  and  will  not  cease  to  pray,  that  they  may  not  long 
be  as  sheep  without  a  shepherd.  As  to  myself,  it  is  com- 
paratively of  little  consequence  what  becomes  of  me.      I 


70  MEMOIR. 

say  not  this  because  that  I  regret  that  I  resigned  my  charge, 
though  I  may  sometimes  be  made  sad,  by  the  thought  that  it 
should  be  necessary  to  do  it.  I  say  it  not  because  I  am  un- 
happy on  that  account.  I  hope  that  in  whatever  situation  I 
may  be  placed,  m  the  providence  of  God,  I  may  be  able  to 
look  to  him,  as  my  chief  portion,  and  be  content. 

June  28, — And  now  that  I  have  despatched  my  business, 
permit  me  to  say,  "  Good  morning  to  you,  to  the  dear  Anne, 

and  A "      I  begin  to  grow  quite  impatient  to  hear  from 

your  family,  and  from  the  dear  people  that  I  have  left.  I 
have  heard  nothing  from  Hartford  since  my  departure.  1 
however  expect  to  hear  nothing  till  I  write  myself.  Well, 
then,  what  shall  I  say  ?  Shall  I  begin  with  an  account  of  the 
weather,  which  is  always  the  first  subject  of  conversation, 
the  world  over  ?  This  cannot  be  interesting  to  you,  except 
in  its  bearing  on  my  health  and  spirits.  The  fortnight  that 
I  have  spent  here,  has  been  almost  all  of  it,  too  cold  for  my 
comfort.  Several  days  have  been  passed  by  a  good  fire. 
For  a  week  it  has  been  rainy,  and  is  now  becoming  some- 
what warmer.  It  has  hitherto  been  too  cold,  to  think  of 
Newport  air,  or  Newport  beach  and  surf.  But  I  am  going 
down,  on  Saturday,  and  shall  probably  remain  there  for  two 
or  three  months,  if  I  receive  any  benefit  to  my  health. 

You  have  probably   heard  of  me  by  Dr.  P ,   whom  I 

saw  in  Providence.  I  hope  you  have  not  heard  any  thing 
bad  respecting  me.  You  must  be  very  cautious  about  receiv- 
ing conjectures,  and  dreams,  and  such  like  shadowy  things, 
for  substantial  matters  of  fact. 

Permit  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  take  this  opportunity  to  ex- 
press to  you,  and  to  Mrs.  M and  your  family,  my  grate- 
ful sense  of  your  kindness,  which  has  been  to  me  so  great, 
and  so  constant.  I  shall  ever  take  an  interest  in  your  wel- 
fare.    May  the  best  blessings  of  heaven  be  yours. 

Neicport,  July  5. 
I  have  just  seated  myself  in  my  new  lodgings.     My  room 
is  in  the  third  story,  and  the  south-west  corner.     The  west 


MEMOIR.  7** 

window  looks  over  the  town,  and  the  south  commands  an  en- 
chanting view  of  the  ocean,  extending  almost  half  around  the 
horizon.  I  have  been  sitting  for  half  an  hour,  with  my  eyes 
fixed  on  this  circular  expanse,  admiring  the  beautiful  blue,  and 
the  white  sails  moving  over  it.  Fifteen  or  twenty  are  now 
in  sight,  scattered  along  the  line  where  the  sky  and  sea  seem 
to  meet.  I  have  no  reason  yet  to  complain  of  fogs  ;  but  the 
wind  from  the  water  is  often  too  fresh  for  my  comfort,  and 
I  fear  for  my  health.  The  people  here  think  a  north  wind 
the  softest,  and  sweetest  of  all  the  airs  of  heaven.  What  a 
world  of  contradictions  is  this  ?  and  what  contradictory  crea- 
tures are  we  that  live  in  it.  As  long  ago  as  the  days  of  Hor- 
ace, the  rich  and  the  gay  of  the  city  were  forever  talking  of 
the  beauty  of  fields,  and  groves,  and  lakes,  and  mountains,  and 
sighing  to  enjoy  them  ;  while  the  poor,  and  plain  people  of 
the  country  were  always  admiring  the  palaces,  and  pomp  of 
the  city,  and  panting  to  live  in  the  midst.  And  now  the  in- 
habitants of  the  sea-board  are  praising  the  air  from  the  coun- 
try, and  welcoming  it,  with  great  delight ;  while  those  of  the 
interior  are  quoting  poetry  about  the  cool  breath  of  ocean  ; 
and  opening  all  their  windows  and  doors  to  invite  it  in.  As 
to  my  health,  I  am  not  yet  satisfied  about  the  effect  of  these 
winds  and  waves.  One  thing  is  certain,  that  from  some  cause 
or  other,  during  several  days,  I  have  had  a  more  violent  pain 
in  my  breast  than  I  ever  felt  before.  It  has  left  a  very  un- 
comfortable sensation  of  soreness.  If  I  continue  here,  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  be  obliged  to  leave  this  beautiful  situation,  and 
pleasant  family,  for  a  place  less  elevated  and  unconfined. 

Soon  after  the  date  of  this,  he  wrote  to  another  friend,  and 
though  the  letters  are  similar,  there  is  no  impropriety  in  the 
insertion  of  both. 

Newjjort,  July  13. 
You  may  wish  to  hear  something  about  my  present  situa- 
tion and  prospects.     I  have  taken  lodgings  in  a  house  more 
pleasantly  situated   than  any  other  here.     My  room  is  in  the 
south-west  corner  of  the  third  story.     My  west  window  over- 


72 


MEMOIR. 


looks  the  town,  the  beautiful  harbour,  with  its  sails  and  steam- 
boats, its  islands,  and  forts,  and  light-houses.  My  south  win- 
dow commands  a  view  of  the  blue  rolling  deep,  extending  al- 
most from  east  to  west.  Here  are  fifteen  or  twenty  white 
sails  almost  always  in  sight  from  this  same  window.  The 
ocean's  dying  roar  sometimes  comes  to  my  ear.  The  dis- 
tance to  the  shore  in  a  south  direction  is  two  or  three  miles  ; 
to  the  long,  beautiful  beach,  in  an  east  direction,  it  is  only 
three-fourths  of  a  mile.  The  land  of  these  shores  and  islands 
lies  in  smooth  swells,  and  long  drawn  slopes,  and  is  rich  as  a 
garden.  As  to  my  health,  I  must  say,  that  I  am  not  yet  sat- 
isfied whether  it  will  be  best  to  spend  the  summer  here.  If  I 
do,  I  fear  I  shall  be  obliged  to  leave  my  present  lodgings  for  a 
situation  less  exposed  to  the  sea-breezes,  whifh  are  here  so 
fresh  even  at  noon,  and  frequently  towards  evening,  that  I 
must  shut  down  my  windows,  or  suffer  for  not  doing  it.  Ei- 
ther these  bracing  winds,  or  bathing  in  the  surf,  or  both,  or 
something  else,  has  given  me,  for  several  days  past,  a  more  vi- 
olent pain  in  my  breast  than  I  ever  felt  before.  But  I  have 
less  of  my  palpitation  than  usual.  I  must  therefore  stay  here 
a  while  longer,  at  least,  in  order  to  make  a  faithful  trial  of  this 
climate.  I  preached  the  last  Sabbath,  and  have  engaged  to 
preach  the  next,  if  I  am  well  enough.  May  the  Lord  bless 
you,  and  yours,  abundantly,  and  continually. 

Newport,  July  13,  1826. 
I  thank  you  most  sincerely  for  the  intelligence  with 


which  your  kind  letter  commences  ;  and  I  praise  God  for 

the  work  which  is  the  subject  of  that  intelligence.     If  M. 

has  become  indeed  a  christian,  it  is  an  event  highly  impor- 
tant to  your  family,  as  well  as  to  herself.  1  pray  God  that 
it  may  be  a  great  blessing  to  every  member.  How  happy, 
beyond  the  common  lot,  must  be  that  family,  in  which  every 
member  loves  the  Saviour.  May  you  enjoy  this  happiness. 
May  you  enjoy  it  soon,  and  as  long  as  shall  be  best  for  your 
eternal  interests.  It  seems  probable  that  Lazarus,  and  Ma- 
ry, and  Martha,  constituted    a  family,  and  they  were    all 


MEMOIR.  TS 

the  followers  of  Christ,  and  there  Christ  dehghted  to  dwell. 
May  he  dwell  with  you  in  Spirit,  and  shed  abroad  his  love  in 

every  heart.  You  say  that  you  lament  that  M cannot  have 

my  instructions  in  her  present  interesting  state.  I  trust  that 
she  will  have  those  w'hich  shall  be  much  better.  The  value, 
that  you  seem  to  set  upon  my  instructions,  makes  me  feel 
more  deeply  my  insufficiency,  and  my  unfaithfulness,  as  a 
minister  of  the  gospel.  It  now  appears  to  me,  that  1  did  ve- 
ry little,  while  in  Hartford,  to  bring  my  hearers  to  a  saving 
knowledge  of  the  truth,  as  it  is  in  Jesus.  I  sometimes  won- 
der, that  my  dear  people  could  bear  with  me  as  they  did,  in 
my  coldness,  as  well  as  in  my  weakness.  When  I  look  back 
to  the  work  that  I  was  appointed  to  do  among  you,  it  seems 
as  if  I  failed  in  every  part  of  it.  May  the  great  Head  of  the 
Church,  speedily  send  to  you,  not  only  a  liealthier  minister, 
but  one  far  more  spiritual  and  devoted.  It  is  only  by  ofl'ering 
such  a  prayer,  that  I  can  show  any  of  the  gratitude  which  I 
feel  towards  my  dear  people,  for  their  persevering  kindness 
to  me.  My  interest  in  the  welfare  of  the  church  and  society 
will  continue,  wherever  my  future  lot  may  be  cast.  In  this 
connexion,  permit  me  to  thank  you,  and  all  your  family,  for 
all  your  kindness,  and  theirs,  when  I  have  been  sick,  and 
when  in  health,  when  present,  and  when  absent.  May  the 
Lord  bless  you  richly,  and  continually. 

Worcester,  July  18,  1826. 
You  will  perhaps  wonder  how  it  happens,  that  I  am 


writing  to  you,  from  the  middle  of  Massachusetts,  instead  of 
the  south  side  of  R.  I.  The  case  is  just  this  :  I  found  that 
the  strong  and  damp  sea-breezes  of  Newport,  produced  a 
stricture  in  my  breast,  attended  with  severe  pain  at  times, 
and  with  constant  soreness.  I  was  obliged  to  rehnquish 
bathing  in  the  surf,  and  at  last  to  quit  the  town.  I  am  now 
on  a  tour  to  the  mountains  of  Vermont,  and  New  Hampsliire. 
My  route  from  Newport  to  Keene,  and  Bellow's-Falls,  lies 
directly  through  Worcester.  I  shall  probably  travel  up  Con- 
necticut River,  as  far  as  Lancaster,  then  turn  to  the  East, 
10 


74 


MEMOIR. 


and  climb  the  White  Mountains,  and  thence  proceed  to  the 
sea-coast,  perhaps  to  Portland,  perhaps  through  Concord  and 
Andover,  to  Boston.  I  am  resting  at  Worcester,  for  a  few 
days,  because  I  wish  to  get  rid  of  all  my  soreness  of  lungs  and 
throat,  in  this  inland  valley,  before  I  expose  myself  to  the 
evening  air,  in  stage-coaches  and  on  lofty  mountains.     Last 

evening  I  saw  Mr.  C. for  a  minute,  while  one  carriage 

was  unloaded,  and  another  loaded.  Of  him,  I  made  as  many 
enquiries  as  the  time  allowed,  respecting  my  dear  people,  and 
Hartford  in  general,  and  your  family  in  particular.  I  am  sor- 
ry to  hear  that  you  do  not  succeed  in  obtaining  a  permanent 
preacher.  But  I  trust,  God  will  provide  one  in  his  own  best 
time. 

Respecting  my  health,  I  can  only  say,  that  I  have  had  but 
little  of  my  palpitation,  this  summer,  as  I  have  preached  but 
very  seldom,  and  studied  none  at  all.  What  will  become  of 
me,  I  know  not,  but  I  will  not  murmur  at  the  allotments  of 
providence,  for  they  are  all  wise,  and  good.  May  the  Father 
of  mercies  grant  to  you,  all  that  you  need,  for  the  present, 
and  the  future  life. 

July  27. — I  fear  you  think  me  foolishly,  if  not  fatally  in 
love  wath  the  charms  of  poetry.  You  think  me  too  much 
under  the  influence  of  the  imagination,  to  be  happy  myself, 
or  to  make  others  happy.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  reproach  my- 
self for  my  attachment  to  '  harmonious  numbers,'  but  it  is  in 
vain  for  me  to  conceal  the  fact,  that  this  attachment  is  ungov- 
ernable, and  that  from  it,  I  derive  the  most  exquisite  enjoy- 
ment.  

Of  the  tour  to  the  White  Mountains,  to  which  reference  is 
made  in  a  preceding  extract,  the  public  have  heard.  To  pre- 
serve a  connected  series  of  the  leading  incidents  of  his  life 
from  his  own  pen,  the  letter  which  has  appeared  in  the  pub- 
lic journals  is  reprinted  in  this  connexion. 


MEMOIR.  TO 

Hanover y  {N.  H.)  Sept.  %  1826. 
Dear  Sir, — 

I  have  just  returned  from  an  excursion  to  the  White  Moun- 
tains, and  shall  now  spend  a  day  of  rest  in  this  village,  in  giv- 
ing you  some  account  of  the  effects  produced  by  the  most 
destructive  fall  of  rain  ever  Imown  in  that  region.  It  hap- 
pened on  the  night  of  the  '28th  of  August,  which  will  be  long 
remembered  in  this  part  of  the  country. 

I  left  Hanover  on  Saturday  last,  in  company  with  two  gen- 
tlemen of  my  acquaintance  from  the  city  of  New- York,  and 
rode  as  far  as  Haverhill,  where  we  all  spent  the  Sabbath. 
The  road  over  which  we  passed  was  like  a  bed  of  ashes  two 
or  three  inches  deep  ;  and  the  country  around  us  exhibited 
the  usual  effects  of  a  long  drought.  The  abundant  rains 
that  fell  three  weeks  ago,  over  the  Southern  half  of  New- 
England,  did  not  reach  the  upper  part  of  the  valley  of  Con- 
necticut River.  On  Monday  morning  it  began  to  rain  at 
Haverliill,  and  continued  along  our  route  for  most  of  the  day, 
but  so  moderately  and  at  such  intervals,  that  with  the  help  of 
great  coats  and  umbrellas  we  proceeded  on  our  journey  in 
an  open  wagon  as  far  as  Bethlehem,  fifteen  miles  west  of 
the  White  Mountains.  As  we  approached  the  vicinity  of 
the  Mountains,  the  rain  increased  till  it  became  a  storm,  and 
compelled  us  to  stop  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 

The  storm  continued  most  of  the  night ;  but  the  next 
morning  was  clear  and  serene.  The  view  from  the  hill  of 
Bethlehem  was  extensive  and  delightful.  In  the  Eastern 
horizon.  Mount  Washington,  with  the  neighbouring  peaks  on 
the  North  and  on  the  South,  formed  a  grand  outline  far  up 
m  the  blue  sky.  Two  or  three  small  fleecy  clouds  rested  on 
its  side,  a  little  below  its  summit,  while  from  behind  this 
highest  point  of  land  in  the  United  States  East  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi, the  sun  rolled  up  rejoicing  in  his  strength  and  glory. 
We  started  off  toward  the  object  of  our  journey,  with  spirits 
greatly  exhilarated  by  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  our  pros- 
pect. As  we  hastened  forward  with  our  eyes  fixed  on  the 
tops   of  the  Mountains  before  us,  little  did  we  think  of  the 


76 


MEMOIR. 


scene  of  destruction  around  their  base,  on  which  the  sun 
was  now  for  the  first  time  beginning  to  shine.  In  about  half 
an  hour  we  entered  Breton  Woods,  an  unincorporated  tract 
of  land  covered  with  a  primitive  forest,  extending  on  our  road 
five  miles  to  Rosebrook's  Inn,  and  thence  six  miles  to  Craw- 
ford's, the  establishment  begun  by  Rosebrook's  father,  as  de- 
scribed in  the  travels  of  Dr.  Dwight.  On  entering  this  wil- 
derness we  were  struck  with  its  universal  stillness.  From 
every  leaf  in  its  immense  masses  of  fohage  the  rain  hung  in 
large  glittering  drops ;  and  the  silver  note  of  a  single  un- 
seen and  unknown  bird  was  the  only  sound  that  we  could 
hear.  After  we  had  proceeded  a  mile  or  two  the  roaring 
of  the  Amonoosuck  began  to  break  in  upon  the  stillness,  and 
soon  grew  so  loud  as  to  excite  our  surprise.  In  consequence 
of  coming  to  the  river  almost  at  right  angles,  and  by  a  very 
narrow  road,  through  trees  and  bushes  very  thick,  we  had 
no  view  of  the  water,  till  with  a  quick  trot  we  had  advanced 
upon  the  bridge  too  far  to  recede,  when  the  sight  that  opened 
at  once  to  the  right  hand  and  to  the  left,  drew  from  all  of  us 
similar  exclamations  of  astonishment  and  terror  ;  and  we 
hurried  over  the  trembling  fabrick  as  fast  as  possible.  After 
finding  ourselves  safe  on  the  other  side,  we  walked  down  to 
the  brink  ;  and,  though  familiar  with  mountain  scenery,  we 
all  confessed  that  we  had  never  seen  a  mountain  torrent  be- 
fore. The  water  was  as  thick  with  earth  as  it  could  be, 
without  being  changed  into  mud.  A  man  living  near  in  a 
log  hut  showed  us  how  high  it  was  at  day  break.  Though  it 
had  fallen  six  feet,  he  assured  us  that  it  M^as  still  ten  feet 
above  its  ordinary  level.  To  this  add  its  ordinary  depth  of 
three  or  four  feet,  and  here  at  day  break  was  a  body  of  water 
twenty  feet  deep,  and  sixty  feet  wide,  moving  with  the  rapidi- 
ty of  a  gale  of  wind,  betw  een  steep  banks  covered  with  hem- 
locks and  pines,  and  over  a  bed  of  large  rocks,  breaking  its 
surface  into  billows  like  those  of  the  ocean.  After  gazing  a 
few  moments  on  this  sublime  sight,  we  proceeded  on  our  way, 
for  the  most  part  at  some  distance  from  the  river,  till  we  came 
to  the  farm  of  Rosehrooh,  lying  on  its  banks.     We  found  his 


MEMOIR. 


Ti 


fields  covered  with  water,  and  sand,  and  flood  wood.  His  fen- 
ces and  bridges  were  all  swept  away  ;  and  the  road  was  so 
blocked  up  with  logs,  that  we  had  to  wait  for  the  labors  of 
men  and  oxen,  before  we  could  get  to  his  house.  Here  we 
were  told  that  the  river  was  never  before  known  to  bring 
down  any  considerable  quantity  of  earth,  and  were  pointed 
to  bare  spots  on  the  sides  of  the  White  Mountains,  never  seen 
till  that  morning.  As  our  road,  for  the  remaining  six  miles, 
lay  quite  near  the  river  and  crossed  many  small  tributary 
streams,  we  employed  a  man  to  accompany  us  with  an  axe. 
We  were  frequently  obliged  to  remove  trees  from  the  road, 
to  fill  excavations,  to  mend  and  make  bridges,  or  contrive  to 
get  our  horses  and  wagon  along  separately.  After  toiling  in 
this  manner  for  half  a  day,  we  reached  the  end  of  our  jour- 
ney, not  however  without  being  obliged  to  leave  our  wagon 
half  a  mile  behind.  In  many  places,  in  these  six  miles,  the 
road  and  the  whole  adjacent  woods,  as  it  appeared  from  the 
marks  on  the  trees,  had  been  overflowed  to  the  depth  of  ten 
feet.  In  one  place  the  river,  in  consequence  of  some  ob- 
struction at  a  remarkable  fall,  had  been  twenty  feet  higher 
than  it  was  when  we  passed.  We  stopped  to  view  the  fall, 
which  Dr.  Dwight  calls  "  beautiful."  He  says  of  it — '*  The 
descent  is  from  fifty  to  sixty  feet,  cut  through  a  mass  of 
stratified  granite  ;  the  sides  of  which  appear  as  if  they  had 
been  laid  by  a  mason  in  a  variety  of  fantastical  forms  ;  be- 
traying, however,  by  their  rude  and  wild  aspect,  the  mas- 
terly hand  of  nature."  This  description  is  sufficiently  cor- 
rect ;  but  the  beauty  of  the  fall  was  now  lost  in  its  sublimity. 
You  have  only  to  imagine  the  whole  body  of  the  Amonoosuck, 
as  it  appeared  at  the  bridge  which  we  crossed,  now  compres- 
sed to  half  of  its  width,  and  sent  downward  at  an  angle  of  20 
or  25  degrees  between  perpendicular  walls  of  stone.  On 
our  arrival  at  Crawford's  the  appearance  of  his  farm  was  like 
'  that  of  Rosebrook's,  only  much  worse.  Some  of  his  sheep 
and  cattle  were  lost ;  and  eight  hundred  bushels  of  oats  were 
destroyed.  Here  we  found  five  gentlemen,  who  gave  us  an 
interesting  account  of  their  unsuccessful  attempt  to  ascend 


78  MEMOIR, 

Mount  Washington  the  preceding  day.  They  went  to  the 
"  Camp"  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  on  Sabbath  evening,  and 
lodged  there,  with  the  intention  of  cHmbing  the  summit  the 
next  morning.  But  in  the  morning  the  mountains  were  en- 
veloped in  thick  clouds  ;  the  rain  began  to  fall,  and  increased 
till  afternoon,  when  it  came  down  in  torrents.  At  five  o'clock 
they  proposed  to  spend  another  night  at  the  camp,  and  let 
their  guide  return  home  for  a  fresh  supply  of  provisions  for 
the  next  day.  But  the  impossibility  of  keeping  a  fire  where 
every  thing  was  so  wet,  and  the  advice  of  their  guide,  made 
them  all  conclude  to  i*eturn,  though  with  great  reluctance.  No 
time  was  now  to  be  lost,  for  they  had  seven  miles  to  travel 
on  foot,  and  six  of  them  by  a  rugged  path  through  a  gloomy 
forest.  They  ran  as  fast  as  their  circumstances  would  per- 
mit ;  but  the  dark  evergreens  around  them,  and  the  black 
clouds  above,  made  it  night  before  they  had  gone  half  of  the 
way.  The  rain  poured  down  faster  every  moment ;  and 
the  little  streams,  which  they  had  stepped  across  the  evening 
before,  must  now  be  crossed  by  wading,  or  by  cutting  down 
trees  for  bridges,  to  which  they  were  obliged  to  cling  for  life. 
In  this  way  they  reached  the  bridge  over  the  Amonoosuck 
near  Crawford's,  just  in  time  to  pass  it  before  it  was  carried 
down  the  current.  On  Wednesday,  the  weather  being  clear 
and  beautiful,  and  the  waters  having  subsided,  six  gentlemen, 
with  a  guide,  went  to  Mount  Washington,  and  one  accompa- 
nied Mr.  Crawford  to  the  "Notch,"  from  which  nothing  had 
yet  been  heard.  We  met  again  at  evening,  and  related  to 
each  other  what  we  had  seen.  The  party  who  went  to  the 
Mountain  were  five  hours  in  reaching  the  site  of  the  camp, 
instead  of  three,  the  usual  time.  The  path  for  nearly  one- 
third  of  the  distance  was  so  much  excavated,  or  covered 
with  miry  sand,  or  blocked  up  with  flood  wood,  that  they 
were  obliged  to  grope  their  way  through  thickets  almost  im- 
penetrable, where  one  generation  of  trees  after  another  had 
risen  and  fallen,  and  were  now  lying  across  each  other  in  ev- 
ery direction,  and  in  various  stages  of  decay.  The  Camp  it- 
self had  been  wholly  swept  away  ;  and  the  bed  of  the  rivu- 


MEMOIR.  79 

let  by  which  it  had  stood,  was  now  more  than  ten  rods 
wide,  and  with  banks  from  ten  to  fifteen  feet  high.  Four  or 
five  other  brooks  w'ere  passed,  m  hose  beds  were  enlarged, 
some  of  them  to  twice  the  extent  of  this.  In  several,  the  water 
was  now  only  three  or  four  feet  wide,  w  hile  the  bed  of  ten, 
fifteen  or  twenty  rods  in  width,  w^as  covered  for  miles  with 
stones  from  two  to  five  feet  in  diameter,  that  had  been  rolled 
down  the  mountains,  and  through  the  forests,  by  thousands, 
bearing  every  thing  before  them.  Not  a  tree,  nor  the  root  of 
a  tree  remained  in  their  path.  Immense  piles  of  hemlocks 
and  other  trees  with  their  limbs  and  bark  entirely  bruised  oflf, 
were  lodged  all  the  way  on  both  sides,  as  they  had  been  driv- 
en in  among  the  standing  and  half  standing  trees  on  the 
'  banks.  While  the  party  were  climbing  the  Mountain,  thirty 
"  slides"  were  counted,  some  of  which  began  near  the  line 
where  the  soil  and  vegetation  terminate,  and  growing  wader 
as  they  descended,  were  estimated  to  contain  more  than  a 
hundred  acres.  These  were  all  on  the  western  side  of  the 
mountains.  They  were  composed  of  the  w^hole  surface  of 
the  earth  with  all  its  growth  of  woods,  and  its  loose  rocks,  to 
the  depth  of  15,  20,  and  30  feet.  And  wherever  the  slides 
of  the  two  projecting  mountains  met,  forming  a  vast  ravine, 
the  depth  was  still  greater. 

Such  was  the  report  which  the  party  from  the  mountains 
gave.  The  intelligence  which  Mr.  Crawford,  and  the  gentle- 
man accompanying  him,  brought  from  the  Notch,  was  of  a 
more  melancholy  nature.  The  road,  though  a  turnpike,  was 
in  such  a  state,  that  they  were  obliged  to  walk  to  the  Notch 
House,  lately  kept  by  Mr.  Willey,  a  distance  of  six  miles. 
All  the  bridges  over  the  Amonoosuck,  five  in  number,  those 
over  the  Saco,  and  those  over  the  tributary  streams  of  both, 
were  gone.  In  some  places  the  road  was  excavated  to  the 
depth  of  15  and  20  feet;  and  in  others  it  was  covered  with 
earth,  and  rocks,  and  trees,  to  as  great  a  height.  In  the 
Notch,  and  along  the  deep  defile  below  it,  for  a  mile  and  a 
half,  to  the  Notch  House,  and  as  far  as  could  be  seen  beyond 
it,  no  appearance  of  the  road,  except  in  one  place  for  two  or 


80  MEMOIR. 

three  rods,  could  be  discovered.  The  steep  sides  of  the 
mountain,  first  on  one  hand,  then  on  the  other,  and  then  on 
both,  had  shd  down  into  this  narrow  passage,  and  formed  a 
continued  mass  from  one  end  to  the  other,  so  that  a  turnpike 
will  probably  not  be  made  through  it  again  very  soon,  if  ever. 
The  Notch  House  was  found  uninjured ;  though  the  barn  ad- 
joining it  by  a  shed,  was  crushed ;  and  under  its  ruins  were 
two  dead  horses.  The  house  was  entirely  deserted;  the  beds 
were  tumbled;  their  covering  was  turned  down;  and  near 
them  upon  chairs  and  on  the  floor  lay  the  wearing  apparel  of 
the  several  members  of  the  family;  while  the  money  and  the 
papers  of  Mr.  Willey  were  lying  in  his  open  bar.  From  these 
circumstances  it  seemed  almost  certain,  that  the  whole  family 
were  destroyed ;  and  it  soon  became  quite  so,  by  the  arrival 
of  a  brother  of  Mr.  Crawford  from  his  father's,  six  miles  far- 
ther East.  From  him  we  learnt  that  the  valley  of  the  Saco 
for  many  miles,  presented  an  uninterrupted  scene  of  desola- 
tion. The  two  Crawfords  were  the  nearest  neighbours  of 
Willey.  Two  days  had  now  elapsed  since  the  storm,  and 
nothing  had  been  heard  of  his  family  in  either  direction. 
There  was  no  longer  any  room  to  doubt  that  they  had  been 
alarmed  by  the  noise  of  the  destruction  around  them,  had  sprung 
from  their  beds,  and  fled  naked  from  the  house,  and  in  the  utter 
darlmess  had  been  soon  overtaken  by  the  falling  mountains 
and  rushing  torrents.  The  family  \vhich  is  said  to  have  been 
miable  and  respectable,  consisted  of  nine  persons,  Mr.  Wil- 
ley and  his  wife  and  five  young  children  of  theirs,  with  a  hired 
man  and  boy.  After  the  fallof  a  single  slide  last  June,  they  were 
more  ready  to  take  the  alarm,  though  they  did  not  consider 
their  situation  dangerous,  as  none  had  ever  been  known  to 
fall  there  previous  to  this.  Whether  more  rain  fell  now  than 
had  ever  been  known  to  fall  before  in  the  same  length  of 
time,  at  least  since  the  sides  of  the  mountains  were  covered 
with  so  heavy  a  growth  of  woods,  or  whether  the  slides  were 
produced  by  the  falling  of  such  a  quantity  of  rain  so  suddenly, 
after  the  earth  had  been  rendered  light  and  loose  by  the  long 
drought,  1  am  utterly  unable  to  say.     All  I  know  is,  that  at 


MEMOIR.  81 

the  close  of  a  rainy  day,  the  clouds  seemed  all  to  come  to- 
gether over  the  White  Mountains,  and  at  midnight  discharge 
their  contents  at  once  in  a  terrible  burst  of  rain,  which  pro- 
duced the  effects  that  have  now  been  described.  Why  these 
effects  were  produced  now,  and  never  before,  is  known  only 
to  Him,  who  can  rend  the  heavens  when  he  will,  and  come 
down,  and  cause  the  mountains  to  flow  down  at  his  pres- 
ence. Yours,  &c. 

Carlos  Wilcox. 

Hanover,  Sept.  4. — P.  S. — We  have  just  heard  that  the 
bodies  of  the  three  adults  of  Mr.  Willey's  family  have  been 
dug  up,  dreadfully  mangled,  from  amid  earth  and  rocks, 
about  fifty  rods  from  the  house.  We  have  also  heard  that 
many  of  the  bridges  and  mills,  on  the  streams  running  south 
from  the  White  Mountains,  and  forming  the  several  branches 
of  the  Merrimack,  have  been  swept  away,  and  that  much 
other  damage  has  been  done  in  that  direction. 

After  having  passed  the  summer  of  1826,  in  various  pla- 
ces, he  visited  Boston,  and  spent  the  autumn  in  that  city, 
preaching  almost  every  Sabbath.  Near  the  close  of  the 
year,  he  received  an  invitation  to  supply  the  pulpit  in  Danbu- 
ry,  Con.  with  which  he  complied.  At  this  place  he  arrived 
some  time  in  December.  From  Danbury  he  writes  as  fol- 
lows: 

Danhury,  January  6, 1827. 

It  gives  me  pleasure  to  be  assured  of  your  kind  re- 
membrance, and  that  of  your  family.  *  *  *  *  I  shall  think  of 
my  dear  people  all  day,  the  second  Sabbath  of  January,  and 

while  I  thank  God,   that  I  am   not  in   Mr.  S 's  place,  I 

shall  not  forget  to  pray,  that  the  events  of  that  Sabbath,  may 
issue  in  a  union  that  shall  be  happy  and  lasting. 

You  are  kind  enough  to  enquire  about  my  situation,  which 
I  can  truly  say  is  more  pleasant  than  I  had  expected.  I 
board  in  the  family  of  a  very   pleasant   brother  clergyman, 

11 


82  MEMOIR. 

who  teaches  the  Academy  here.  Tell  Mrs.  M.  that  since 
so  much  has  been  said  about  my  pleasant  room  in  your  house, 
she  may  know,  that  the  one  I  am  now  in  is  more  like  that, 
than  any  other  that  ever  fell  to  my  lot  in  all  my  wanderings. 
It  is  quite  as  large  ;  has  two  windows  towards  the  rising  sun, 
and  two  towards  the  setting,  and  one  toward  the  northern 
star.  You  see,  then,  that  it  is  on  the  north  end  of  the  house ; 
and  as  it  is  on  the  lower  floor,  it  is  more  like  the  one  in 
which  you  are  now  living.  My  windows  are  surrounded 
with  rose-bushes  and  lilacs.  It  will  be  a  delightful  room  for 
summer,  and  is  pleasant  enough  now.  Do  just  come  and 
see. 

I  find  some  very  intelligent  and  agreeable  society  here. 
#  #  *  #  *  ]y[y  health  is  pretty  good  for  me.  My  ex- 
ercise is  regular,  as  I  have  cut  every  stick  of  wood  that  I  have 
burned.  Your  caution  about  multiplying  my  labours,  is  wor- 
thy of  remembrance.  I  have,  however,  undertaken  to  attend 
one  evening  meeting  in  a  week,  in  addition  to  my  other 
labours. 

Danbury,  March  3,  1827. 
You  probably  heard  something  of  the  state  of  my  health 
a  fortnight  ago,  by  Mr.  W  *  *  *  or  from  the  note  to  Mr.  H. 
Since  that  time,  I  have  been  much  more  seriously  ill.  My 
throat  began  to  be  inflamed  about  the  middle  of  Januaiy  and 
has  been  growing  worse  ever  since.  For  four  or  five  Sab- 
baths, I  continued  to  preach,  or  to  read  half  a  sermon,  in  the 
morning,  and  the  other  half  in  the  afternoon.  This  I  was  en- 
abled to  do  without  much  pain,  by  taking  sugar  wet  with  elixir, 
and  warming  my  stockings,  boots,  socks,  and  standing  on  an 
oak  plank  well  heated,  and  by  tying  a  muffler  round  my  neck. 
By  these  means,  I  was  kept  from  coughing  during  the  service. 
But  I  am  now  convinced,  that  I  had  better  not  have  attempt- 
ed to  preach.  But  who  can  tell  always,  whether  a  little  ill- 
ness is  likely  to  end  in  something  serious  ?  Ulcers  began  to 
form  in  my  throat  three  weeks  ago,  some  have  broken  and 
healed  up ;  others  have  appeared  in  other  places.     By  the 


MEMOIR.  83 

application  of  blisters  to  my  neck,  and  the  use  of  a  particular 
wash,  the  soreness  in  my  throat  has  been  rendered  less,  for 
a  day  or  two ;  but  it  has  seemed  to  tend  downwards  to  my 
breast  and  lungs,  and  it  has  become  necessary  to  bleed  me, 
and  apply  a  bUster  to  my  chest,  &c.  In  this  way  my  breast 
and  lungs  have  been  relieved,  but  the  soreness  has  returned 
to  my  throat.  It  is  with  great  difficulty  and  pain  that  I  swal- 
low any  thing.  But  nothing  seems  to  contribute  so  much  to 
irritate  my  throat,  as  my  cough,  which  for  some  weeks  has 
been  very  severe.  It  does  not  trouble  me  much  in  the  day 
time,  as  I  sit  in  my  chair,  and  walk  my  room ;  but  for  a  fort- 
night, it  has  kept  me  awake  more  than  half  of  every  night 
upon  an  average.  It  is  only  from  the  influence  of  strong  ano- 
dyne, that  I  can  sleep  at  all.  I  have  had  night  sweats,  but 
they  appear  to  have  left  me  for  the  present.  My  fever  is 
very  slight  as  yet ;  my  appetite  is  not  wholly  gone,  and  my 
strength  holds  out  remarkably  well.  I  know  not  what  is  in 
store  for  me,  in  the  providence  of  God  ;  and  I  desire  to  com- 
mit myself,  with  all  my  sicknesses,  and  all  my  interests,  with 
all  my  hopes,  and  all  my  fears,  into  the  hands  of  that  Being, 
whose  judgments  are  righteous,  and  whose  tender  mercies  en- 
dure forever.  I  do  not  expect  to  be  cured  by  medicine.  If 
I  can  be  kept  along  till  the  snow  is  gone,  and  the  ground  set- 
tled, and  the  weather  becomes  dry,  and  warm,  it  is  the  most 
that  I  can  hope  ;  I  may  then  recover.  I  have  been  confined 
to  the  house  for  about  a  fortnight,  and  expect  to  be  for  a 
month  or  six  weeks  to  come.  Tell  Dr.  C.  that  my  physician 
often  reminds  me  of  him.  His  name  is  B*******.  I  have 
the  utmost  confidence  in  him. 

Danhury,  March  10,  1827. 
Dear  Madam, 

You  have  doubtless  heard  of  my  illness  ;  and  if  you  have 
seen  my  letter  to  Mr.  M. you  have  learnt  all  the  particu- 
lars respecting  its  nature  and  progress,  till  the  past  week. 
If  you  have  not  seen  that  letter,  I  must  beg  leave  to  refer  you 
to  it,  as  I  feel  quite  unable  to  go  over  this  ground  again.    For 


84 


MEMOIR. 


a  week  past,  my  symptoms  have  worn,  on  the  whole,  a  more 
favourable  appearance  ;  and  my  friends  here  have  not  been  so 
much  alarmed  for  me,  as  they  w  ere  for  a  fortnight  before.  I 
have,  however,  lost  strength  during  the  past  week  ;  and  my 
appetite  is  poorer  than  ever.  This  may  be  owing  to  the  in- 
direct debility  produced  by  medicine,  and  not  by  disease.  I 
have  been  obliged  to  take  so  much  anodyne,  at  night,  to  allay 
my  cough,  that  it  has  left  me  too  languid  to  hold  up  my  head 
the  next  day.  My  cough  is  not  so  severe.  Several  of  the 
ulcers  in  my  throat  are  healed  or  healing,  though  others  re- 
main as  sore  as  ever.  There  is  reason  to  hope  that  none 
have  yet  formed  on  my  lungs,  though  those  in  my  throat  have 
shown  a  tendency  to  spread  downward,  when  disturbed  by 
external  blisters  and  internal  washes. 

But  I  have  said  enough  on  this  subject  to  tire  myself  and 
you  too.  In  all  my  weakness,  I  would  wish  to  think  more  of 
that  Almighty  Being,  who  has  sustained  me  to  this  hour,  and 
who  is  ready  to  do  all  that  for  my  relief,  which  he  sees  to 
be  best.  O  for  a  child-like  submission  to  his  will  !  There 
have  been  times,  during  the  last  three  weeks,  when  it  seem- 
ed to  me,  that  the  end  of  all  my  earthly  wanderings  was  to 
be  in  this  valley  of  Danbury.  But  I  have  now  a  prevailing 
hope,  that  a  merciful  God  will  spare  me,  that  I  may  recover 
strength  before  I  go  hence  to  be  here  no  more.  We  know 
not  however,  what  a  day  may  bring  forth.  Most  sincerely 
do  I  rejoice,  that  you  are  so  soon  to  have  so  good  and  ac- 
ceptable a  minister  of  Christ,  set  over  the  dear  church  and 
people  that  I  was  once  permitted  to  call  mine.  I  trust  in 
God,  that  he  will  come  to  you  in  the  fulness  of  the  blessing 
of  the  gospel  of  peace  ;  and  that  you  will  receive  him  with 
thanksgiving.  May  he  have  the  affections,  and  prg^ers  of  all 
his  people,  to  encourage  him  in  his  labours  ;  and  may  the 
good  Spirit  of  God  bless  him  with  great  and  growing  suc- 
cess. 

I  have  received  an  official  letter,  inviting  me  to  Hartford, 

as  one  of  the  Council  at  Mr.  S. 's  Installation.     You  see 

from  the  feeble  state  of  my  health,  that  I  must  be  denied  this 


MEMOIR.  85 

privilege.  I  shall  be  with  you  in  spirit,  and  rejoice  in  your 
joy- 
But  I  must  bring  my  letter  to  a  close.  It  is  twice  as  long 
as  I  expected  it  would  be  when  I  began  it.  My  strength  is 
quite  exhausted  ;  and  I  can  only  add  a  request,  that  you  will 
remember  me  affectionately  to  Mr.  B. and  other  enquir- 
ing friends. 

The  Lord  be  with  you,  and  bless  you,  and  yours. 

Danhury,  April  21,  1827. 
When   my   last  letter   to  Hartford  was  written,  I   was 
thought  to  be  gaining  quite  fast.     But  soon  afterwards,  that 
is,  about  three  weeks  ago,  I  was  brought  down  again  by  a 
very  severe  relapse.     My  throat,   which  had  become  almost 
well,  was  thrown  into  a  state  of  the  most  burning,  and  dis- 
tressing inflammation,  lasting  day  and  night,  for  more  than  a 
fortnight.     My  cough  became  harder  tlian  ever.     I  have 
been  much  lower  since  the  first  of  April,  than  before  for  ma- 
ny years.     The  burning  inflammation  in  my  throat  is  now 
somewhat  less  again,  but  the  soreness  is  still  so  great,  that  I 
^   am  obliged  to  live  on  liquids.     My  cough  is  yet  quite  severe. 
I  am  wasted  to  a  skeleton.     Many  of  my  friends  here  have 
very  little  hope  of  my  recovery.     I  consider  it  quite  doubtful 
myself,  whether  I  ever  see  Hartford  again.     It  is  possible, 
that  in  the  good  providence  of  God,  as  the  warm  weather  of 
May  comes,  I  may  be  relieved  of  my  disease,  and  blessed  with 
returning  strength.     But  1  desire  to  feel  that  all  is  in  good 
hands,  and  to  pray  that  I  may  be  resigned  to  the  righteous  and 
merciful  will  of  my  heavenly  Father.     Living  or  dying,  may 
I  be  his.     I  have  not  strength  to  write  any  more. 

About  the  middle  of  May,  his  disease  had  made  such  pro- 
gress, and  his  strength  was  so  far  gone,  that  he  relinquished 
.  the  hope  of  ever  being  restored  to  health,  and  began  to  ar- 
range his  affairs  with  the  expectation  of  speedy  dissolution, 
and  with  entire  composure,  to  anticipate  the  closing  scene. 
He  dictated  three  letters,  one  to  his  parents,  and  two  to  other 


86  MEMOIR, 

friends,  in  which  he  expressed  fully  his  apprehensions  of  im- 
mediate death  ;  and  in  his  own  affectionate  and  delicate  man- 
ner, took  his  leave  of  them.  In  one  he  says — "  My  strength 
is  almost  gone,  my  days  are  numbered,  and  will  soon  be  fin- 
ished.**** The  world,  with  all  its  joys  and  sorrows,  fades 
from  my  view.  I  must  soon  prove  the  reality  of  the  great 
things  of  faith  and  eternity.  The  religion  of  Christ  must  be 
all  in  all  to  me  now.**** 

"O  what  a  glorious  change,  to  leave  this  world  and  go  into 
the  presence  of  Christ !  O  to  become  sinless,  as  well  as  hap- 
py and  glorified,  I  desire  to  pray  continually  while  I  have 
breath,  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner. 

And  now,  my  deai'  friend,  we  must  part.  May  you  have 
much  of  the  presence  of  yom-  God  and  Saviour,  may  you  see 
many  good  days  on  earth,  while  the  sun  is  shining  on  my  lone 
grave  ;  may  your  death  be  peaceful,  whenever  it  come,  and 
your  immortality  glorious  ;  may  we  meet  in  a  better  world? 
and  together  unite  in  singing  the  praises  of  the  Redeemer."-^ 

To  his  parents,  after  mentioning  the  state  of  his  health  and 
his  apprehension  that  his  last  sickness  had  come,  and  request- 
ing one  of  his  brothers  to  visit  him  immediately,  he  dictated 
the  following  :  "  And  now,  my  dear  parents,  what  shall  I  say 
to  you  in  conclusion  ?  I  cannot  say  much,  for  you  see  I  am 
so  weak  as  to  be  obliged  to  employ  the  hand  of  a  friend  to 
write  for  me.  First  of  all,  then,  let  me  thank  you  for  all  the 
kindness  you  have  shown  me  in  my  past  life.  And  let  me  beg 
of  you  to  be  earnest  in  prayer,  that  God  would  be  merciful 
to  me  a  sinner.  Pray  that  I  may  have  much  of  the  presence 
of  my  God  and  Saviour,  in  my  sickness.  Pray  that  he  may  fit 
me  for  heaven,  and  take  me  to  that  blessed  world,  to  behold 
his  glory.  And  may  the  God  of  life  and  mercy  support  you 
under  your  trials  and  increasing  infirmities — may  he  spare  you 
many  years,  to  be  a  bless  ing  to  the  family — may  he  increase 
your  faith,  and  brighten  your  hope,  and  add  to  your  joy,  as 
the  infirmities  of  age  gather  upon  you — may  your  death  be 
peaceful,  and  your  eternity  glorious.  Do  not  fail  to  write 
nie  immediately.   Though  I  am  in  a  land  of  comparative  stran- 


MEMOIR.  87 

gers,  yet  God  has  raised  me  up  many  friends,  some  one  of 
whom  I  can  employ  to  write  to  you,  perhaps,  every  week. 

To  my  dear  brothers,  I  liave  much  to  say,  would  my 
strength  permit,  but  I  can  merely  direct  them  to  the  Saviour 
in  their  early  days.  O  tell  them  to  prepare  for  a  sick  bed  in 
the  morning  of  life.  Tell  them  that  the  world  all  appears  van- 
ity to  me  now.  Tell  them  that  the  religion  of  Christ  is  the 
only  satisfying  portion  of  the  soul.  Tell  them  to  make  the 
Bible  their  daily  companion,  and  the  throne  of  grace  the  place 
of  their  daily  resort.  And  may  the  God  of  mercy  and  grace, 
give  them  repentance  and  faith,  preserve  them  amid  the 
snares  of  a  wicked  world,  make  them  ornaments  in  the 
church,  and  prepare  them  for  a  blessed  immortality.  I  can 
add  no  more." 

Some  of  the  expressions  he  used  in  conversation  during  his 
sickness  have  been  preserved,  and  may  with  propriety  be  in- 
serted in  this  place. 

"  Some  have  spoken  of  it  as  a  mystery,  that  I  should  be  sick 
and  laid  aside  from  my  labours ;  but  it  is  no  mystery  to  me : 
I  am  a  great  simier,  and  deserve  the  wrath  of  God  now  and 
forever." 

"  If  I  have  any  evidence  of  piety,  it  is  that  I  see  more  and 
more  suitableness  in  the  prayer  of  the  Publican,  to  my  wants ; 
God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner." 

"  Do  pray  for  me,  my  friends,  pray  much,  that  Christ  may 
be  with  me  and  show  me  mercy,  for  never  a  poor  sinner  need- 
ed mercy  more." 

On  Monday,  the  28th  of  May,  he  attempted  to  describe  to 
his  physician  his  sensations  after  taking  some  of  his  medicine  ; 
his  thoughts  were  somewhat  incoherent :  he  said — "  O  I  have 
no  command  of  my  thoughts  on  these  subjects.  God,  Christ, 
Heaven,  the  pardon  of  sin,  the  pardon  of  sin,  what  themes 
are  these  !" 

"  Pray  that  I  may  be  entirely  resigned  to  the  will  of  the 
Lord,  for  his  will  is  always  good,  always  benevolent.  But  the 
most  suitable  prayer  for  me  is,  God  be  mercifnl  to  me  a  sin- 
ner." 


88 


MEMOIR. 


"  Salvation  :  what  wonders,  what  glories  are  contained  in 
that  one  word  !  Salvation,  salvation  from  sin  :  No  honor  can 
be  conferred  upon  a  sinner  like  this." 

He  was  asked  if  he  had  any  fears  of  death.  He  replied — 
"  I  ought  to  have  fears ;  my  heart  and  life  have  been  such — 
but  I  am  by  no  means  without  hope,  for 

*  There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood, 
Drawn  from  Immanuel's  veins, 

And  sinners  plunged  beneath  that  flood, 
Lose  all  their  guilty  stains.' 

"  I  feel  myself  a  poor  guilty  sinner ;  but  Jesus  Clirist  came 
into  the  world  to  save  sinners,  the  chief  of  sinners." 

On  Tuesday  morning,  the  29th,  he  said — "  The  Saviour  ! 
O  all  heaven  praises  him,  let  the  whole  earth  praise  him,  let 
all  intelligent  beings  praise  him.  Eternity  is  too  short  to 
praise  God  and  the  Lamb." 

About  8  o'clock  he  began  to  converse  with  the  friends  who 
stood  around  him,  and  continued  without  much  interruption 
to  address  them  for  nearly  an  hour.  With  the  same  propri- 
ety of  expression,  and  delicate  regard  to  their  feelings,  which 
he  had  ever  been  accustomed  to  manifest  in  health,  he  thank- 
ed them  for  all  their  kindness  to  him,  bade  them  farewell,  and 
sent  messages  to  absent  friends. 

He  then  with  a  distinct  voice,  repeated  the  following  lines  ; 

"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly ; 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 
While  the  tempest  still  is  high. 
Hide  me,  oh  my  Saviour,  hide, 
Till  the  storm  of  life  be  past, 
Safe  into  the  haven  guide, 
O  receive  my  soul  at  last. 

Other  refuge  have  I  none, 
Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  thee, 


MEMOIR.  89 

Leave,  ah  leave  me  not  alone, 
Still  support  and  comfort  me." 

"  1  am  going  fast,  pray  for  me,  that  I  may  not  be  deceived 
in  the  hope  of  heaven." 

"  I  have  some  hope,  all  my  hope  is  in  the  promises  of  God 
in  Christ  Jesus." 

These  were  the  last  words  his  lips  uttered,  and  soon  after 
he  ceased  to  speak,  he  ceased  to  breathe. 

The  kindness  and  attention  shown  to  Mr.  Wilcox,  by  the 
inhabitants  of  Danbury,  will  be  gratefully  remembered  by  his 
distant  friends  :  but  it  was  a  dark  and  painful  dispensation, 
which  led  him  away  from  those  friends,  to  languish  and  die 
among  comparative  strangers,  while  so  many  hearts  would 
have  rejoiced  to  minister  to  his  comfort,  in  the  last  sinking 
hours  ;  and  above  all,  when  the  tenderest  of  mothers,  would 
have  felt  half  the  bitterness  of  that  bitter  cup  removed,  if  her 
hands  might  have  smoothed  his  dying  pillow,  and  her  lips  re- 
ceived liis  parting  breath. 

The  funeral  was  attended  with  great  respect  in  Danbury, 
and  there  his  body  was  first  buried.  But  the  people  to  whom 
he  had  sustained  the  relation  of  a  pastor,  desired  to  have  his 
dust  deposited  with  them  and  their  children.  Accordingly 
he  was  removed,  and  interred  in  the  North  cemetery,  in  Hart- 
ford, by  the  side  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Strong. 

In  this  notice  of  Mr.  Wilcox,  no  attempt  has  been  made  to 
delineate,  in  a  formal  manner,  his  private  character.  But  it 
is  the  recollection  of  his  worth  and  loveliness  in  this  respect, 
that  will  be  last  to  fade  from  the  memories  of  those  who  knew 
him  intimately.  The  history  of  this  beloved  man,  has  shades 
of  sadness,  and  lines  of  mystery  thrown  over  it,  which  have 
been  but  imperfectly  exhibited  m  this  short  sketch  ;  yet  while 
darkness  rests  upon  some  of  the  dealings  of  divine  providence 
with  him,  there  is  a  bright  side,  and  we  may  add  his  name,  to 
a  list  of  his  own  beloved  friends,  to  whose  memory  he  has  paid 
a  tribute  in  the  following  unfinished  elegy. 


12 


90  MEMOIR. 

"  Ye*  were  a  group  of  stars  collected  hcre,t 

Some,  mildly  gloAving,  others  sparkling  bright ; 

Here  rising  in  a  region  calm  and  clear. 

Ye  shone  awhile  with  intermingled  light ; 

Then  parting,  each  pursuing  his  own  flight 

O'er  the  wide  hemisphere,  ye  singly  shone  ; 

But  ere  ye  climbed  to  half  your  promised  height, 

Ye  sunk  again  with  brightening  glory  round  you  thrown, 

Each  left  a  brilliant  track  as  each  expired  alone. 

And  now,  ye  live,  above  the  starry  spheres. 
In  sweet  communion  with  the  pure  and  blest  ; 
Ye  know  no  earthly  change  of  hopes  and  fears, 
But  all  is  one  unbroken  heaven  of  rest. 
An  ocean,  with  no  wave  on  all  its  breast. 

Ye  dwell  in  love  and  feast  upon  high  truth, 

And  share,  in  that  bright  world  beyond  the  tomb, 

Unwasting  vigour,  and  unfading  youth, 

A  cherub's  beauty  and  a  seraph's  bloom  ; 

Ye  err  not,  mourn  not,  fear  no  day  of  doom  ; 

Within  your  breast  there's  nought  to  wake  one  sigh, 

Across  your  brow  there  comes  no  shade  of  gloom  ; 

The  tear  is  wiped  forever  from  your  eye, 

And  all  your  souls  are  filled  with  rapture  pure  and  high. 

The  letters  of  Mr.  Wilcox  have  disclosed  something  of  his 
*'  attachment  to  harmonious  numbers,"  and  this  volume 
would  be  deficient,  should  it  be  published  without  containing 
some  of  his  poetic  productions.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that 
though  he  had  written  much,  he  had  finished  nothing,   in  this 

*  Solomon  M.  Allen,  Sylvester  lismed,  Alexander  M.  Fisher,    Levi 
Parsons,  Pliny  Fisk,  Joseph  R.  Andrus. 
f  Andover  Seminary. 


MEMOIR.  91 

species  of  composition.  But  whatever  there  may  be  to  crit- 
icise in  the  Fragments  he  has  left,  there  certainly  are  proofs 
that  his  was  a  gifted  mind.  His  poetic  effusions  are  not 
common  place.  They  are  not  dull  prose,  made  duller  still 
by  the  monotony  of  measured  syllables.  The  living  spirit  of 
poetry  inspired  his  numbers.  He  had  that  sympathy  with 
nature  which  distinguishes  the  poet  from  other  men,  that 
deep  and  incommunicable  feeling,  which  expatiates,  and  de- 
lights in  her  loneliest  and  loveliest  scenes,  investing  with  richer 
lustre,  all  her  bright  objects,  and  casting  a  deeper  shade  over 
every  thing  dark  and  mournful.  These  remarks  are  foun- 
ded not  merely  on  what  he  has  written,  but  on  an  intimate  know- 
ledge of  the  man,  his  habits,  and  his  favourite  themes  of  con- 
versation. A  common  place  book,  found  among  his  manu- 
scripts, is  filled  in  considerable  part,  with  an  account  of  his 
little  excursions  for  relaxation  and  exercise,  and  shows  how 
his  eyes  and  thoughts  were  employed  during  his  solitary,  or 
social  rambles.  It  is  filled  with  descriptions  of  a  great  va- 
riety of  objects,  so  minute  and  graphic,  that  they  cannot  be 
read  without  a  conviction,  that  he  looked  on  nature,  with  an 
eye  observant  of  all  her  varieties,  and  a  heart  alive  to  all  her 
power.  He  seemed  to  have  stored  in  this  repository,  every 
thing  with  which  he  met,  that  might  ever  be  of  use  to  him 
as  a  writer,  and  especially,  as  a  writer  of  poetry.  Peculiar- 
ities in  the  habits  of  any  animal  or  plant,  which  he  observed 
in  his  walks,  or  met  with  in  his  reading  ;  facts  illustrating  the 
workings  of  the  human  heart,  the  effects  of  the  various  pas- 
sions, of  natural  affection  and  of  christian  principle,  are 
here  noted  down.  And  it  was  not  merely  from  objects  and 
facts  which  would  strike  an  ordinary  observer  as  worthy  of 
special  notice,  that  he  collected  hints  and  borrowed  imagery 
to  be  wrought  into  the  texture,  or  the  ornaments  of  poetry ; 
but  from  things  which  by  most,  would  have  been  passed  as 
common  and  trivial,  he  gathered  the  elements  of  poetry,  like 
the  bee  extracting  honey  from  the  unobtrusive  as  well  as  the 
more  gaudy  flowers. 


93 


MEMOIR. 


One  who  had  known  him  long,  and  intimately,  expressed 
himself  thus  in  a  letter  to  the  writer  of  these  remarks. 

'  I  should  call  him  a  true  poetical  genius,  and  not  a  little 
acquainted  with  that  sort  of  enthusiasm,  and  melancholy,  and 
excitability,  which  sometimes  attend  men  of  genius.  I  used 
sometimes  to  blame  him  for  his  melancholy,  and  think  him 
foolishly  inclined  to  cherish  and  cultivate  it.  But  I  suppose 
it  may  be  said  of  him,  as  has  been  said  of  those  of  like  cast  of 
mind,  that  he  lived  in  a  different  sort  of  world  from  other 
men,  and,  perhaps  there  were  more  of  certain  kinds 
of  satisfaction,  covered  up  under  his  pensive  moods,  than  is 
dreamt  of  in  the  philosophy  of  every  man.  His  taste  was 
refined,  and  delicate,  almost  too  much  so  for  him  to  write 
with  ease  to  himself,  and  perhaps,  sometimes  leading  him  to 
undervalue  the  productions  of  his  own  mind.  He  had  too 
much  sensibility  for  his  comfort,  in  a  world  where  a  man 
must  be  scratched  every  day  of  his  life  by  some  bramble  ; 
but  as  giving  a  cast  of  delicacy  to  his  character,  and  a  kind 
of  pathos  to  his  thoughts,  he  had  just  about  the  right  propor- 
tion.' 

The  first  eflfort  of  his  pen  in  Poetry,  which  has  been  found 
among  his  papers,  is  a  piece  entitled  "  Fancy."  It  was  writ- 
ten while  a  member  of  College,  and  spoken  at  an  exhibition. 
It  contains  616  lines.  Another,  without  date,  containing  410 
lines,  appears  to  have  been  written  about  the  same  period, 
under  the  title  of  the  "  Cottage  in  the  West."  These  are 
written  in  rhyme,  in  an  easy  flowing  manner,  and  many  pas- 
sages are  worthy  of  being  preserved  as  specimens  of  youth- 
ful genius,  and  real  poetry.  An  extract  from  the  introduc- 
tion to  the  poem  last  named,  is  inserted. 

****** 
How  mildly  the  sun  of  the  even, 
Smiles  back  on  the  dew-sprinkled  thorn, 
Leaves  blackness  and  storms  in  mid-heaven, 
But  bends  a  bright  bow  round  its  morn. 
Thus  age  in  the  sun-set  of  time, 


MEMOIR.  93 

Looks  by  the  long  blank  of  its  noon, 

To  the  beauties  that  danced  in  its  prime, 

To  the  rainbows  that  melted  so  soon. 

The  "  Age  of  Benevolence"  was  commenced  about  the  year 
1817,  and  the  first  Book  was  published  in  1822.  This  ap- 
peared under  some  disadvantages.  It  was  a  part  of  a  work, 
and  many  who  might  have  been  disposed  to  purchase  the 
whole,  did  not  choose  to  take  this  Fragment.  Another  disad- 
vantage was,  that  the  Title  had  no  appropriateness  to  the  part 
which  was  published.  The  plan  of  the  "  Age  of  Benevolence," 
as  nearly  as  can  be  collected  from  the  unfinished  fragments 
and  from  what  is  recollected  in  the  conversation  of  its  Au- 
thor, was  as  follows  : 

1st  Book.  Benevolence,  the  glory  of  Heaven. 

2d      "      Benevolence  on  earth,  a  resemblance  of  Heaven. 

3d      "      Need  of  Benevolence  in  our  world. 

4th.     "      Rewards  of  Benevolence. 

5th.     "      Triumph  of  Benevolence. 

The  outlines  of  this  plan  are  announced  in  the  beginning 
of  the  first  Book  ; 

Of  true  benevolence,  its  charms  divine. 
With  other  motives  to  call  forth  its  power, 
And  its  grand  triumphs. 

The  reader  may  be  gratified  in  seeing  something  more  of 
the  plan  of  the  "  Age  of  Benevolence."  To  give  a  connected 
view  of  the  Work,  the  Argument  of  each  Book  is  presented, 
though  left  by  the  Author  in  an  imperfect  state. 

The  Second,  Third,  and  Fourth  Books,  are  written  in  a  fair 
hand,  but  as  they  have  undergone  several  revisions,  the  last 
corrections  of  their  Author  could  not,  in  many  places  be  as- 
certained. 

As  a  specimen  of  his  manner  of  correcting,  the  following 
line  is  given  : 

"  Nor  what  the  pang  of  thy  resistless  dart." 


94  MEMOIR. 

This  has  these  words  substituted  for  resistless. 

Nor  what  the  pang  of  thy  cold  cruel  dart. 
Nor  what  the  pang  of  thy  cold  piercing  dart. 
Nor  what  the  pang  of  thine  unerring  dart. 

The  reasons,  which  influenced  the  writer  to  reUnquish  his 
plan  of  pubUsIiing  the  other  Books,  as  was  his  intention  when 
the  First  went  to  the  press,  are  in  part,  expressed  in  his  let- 
ters comprised  in  the  Biographical  Sketch.  Others  need  not 
be  stated. 

As  copies  of  the  First  Book  are  not  to  be  obtained,  the  edi- 
tion having  all  been  sold,  it  has  been  thought  desirable  to 
preserve  it  in  this  Volume.  A  few  Extracts  from  the  other 
Books  are  also  inserted,  that  the  Author's  plan,  and  what 
might  have  been  expected  had  it  been  completed,  may  be 
more  distinctly  known. 


THE  AGE  OF  BENEVOLENCE. 


AGE  OF  BENEVOLENCE. 


BOOK  I. 

Benevolence  the  glory  of  Heaven. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

General  subject  proposed.  Invocation.  Subject  of  the  first  book.  TJie 
Benevolence  of  God  in  the  works  of  nature.  Illustration  from  an  example 
of  vernal  scenery.  God's  Benevolence,  the  theme  of  revelation.  Its  im- 
mediate exercise  in  his  providence.  Its  higher  glory  in  his  moral  govern- 
ment. Its  highest  in  the  work  of  redemption,  and  in  the  renovating  effects 
of  the  preaching  of  the  cross.  Objection  to  the  Divine  Benevolence  from 
the  existence  of  sin.  Another  from  future  punishments.  A  third  from  the 
afflictions  of  the  pious  in  this  life.  The  happy  tendency  of  these  afflictions 
illustrated  by  the  history  of  Orville  and  Charlotte,  Importance  of  the  doc- 
trine of  God's  Benevolence.  A  hymn  of  praise.  The  Benevolence  of  an- 
gels.    That  of  saints  in  glory. 


BOOK  II. 

Benevolence  on  earth  the  resemblance  of  Heaven. 

THE    ARGUMENT. 

Contrast  between  this  world  and  heaven.  Nature  of  Benevolence:  dis- 
tinct from  constitutional  kindness.  Not  kindled  by  natural  religion.  Im- 
planted by  divine  grace  in  the  place  of  native  selfishness.  Its  excellence. 
Its  power  illustrated  by  an  example.  A  safe-guard  from  tempting  passions. 
Its  activity  a  cure  for  religious  melancholy, 

13 


BOOK  III. 

The  need  of  Benevolence. 

THE   ARGUMENT. 

Profanenese.     Sabbath-breaking.  Intemperance.    Slavery.    War.    The 
Heathen. 


BOOK  IV. 

The  Rewards  of  Benevolence. 

THE   ARGUMENT. 

The  happiness  flowing  naturally  from  the  exercise  of  Benevolence,  al- 
ready sung,  really  a  great  reward.  So  is  the  sxiccess  of  benevolence,  its 
happy  effects  on  the  world.  But  the  design  of  this  book  is  to  treat  more  at 
large,  of  the  absolute  blessings  promised  by  God,  as  the  reward  of  well-do- 
ing. The  body  to  share  in  the  glory  of  heaven — its  resurrection  certain — 
a  Spiritual  body,  incorruptible,  glorious.  Moral  likeness.  Freedom  from 
Borrow.  Happiness  from  various  sources — society  of  angels,  of  each  other — 
God  and  the  Lamb  the  chief  sources.  All  these  enjoyments  increasing,  eter- 
nal. Resurrection,  the  time  when  they  that  have  done  good  will  be  intro- 
duced to  the  consummation  of  all  their  glory — but  the  soul  of  each  happy 
at  death.  Death  of  Horatio.  Christian's  great  and  sudden  change,  a  mo- 
tive to  activity  in  preparation.  Negligence  caused  by  unbelief.  Faith  in 
an  invisible  heaven  reasonable.    The  effects  of  this  faith,  &c. 


THE 

AGE  OF  BENEVOLENCE. 


BOOK  I. 


Of  true  benevolence,  its  charms  divine. 
With  other  motives  to  call  forth  its  power, 
And  its  grand  triumphs,  multiplied  beyond 
All  former  bounds,  in  this  its  golden  age, 
Humbly  I  sing,  awed  by  the  holy  theme  ; 
A  theme  exalted,  though  as  yet  unsung. 
In  beauty  rich,  of  inspiration  full. 
And  worthy  of  a  nobler  harp  than  that 
From  which  heroic  strains  sublimely  sound. 

Thou  who  art  only  and  supremelygood. 
Thee,  thee  alone,  with  trembling  T  invoke, 
From  no  pretended  consciousness  of  need, 
And  for  no  vain  imaginary  aid. 
Deign  thou  to  smile  upon  my  poor  attempt 
To  sing  the  glories  of  thy  truth  and  love. 
Thyself  and  kingdom.     With  extended  hand 
Bear  me  along ;  surround  me  with  thy  light ; 
My  heart  enlarge  and  soften ;  every  power 
Make  sacred  for  thyself;  and  let  thy  love 
Constrain  me.     Give  me  purity  of  aim. 
By  selfishness  untainted,  lest  my  lips 
Thy  truth  profane.     O  make  my  whole  intent, 
Thy  glory  to  promote  by  doing  good  ; 
And,  if  successful,  thine  shall  be  the  praise. 


100 


THE    AGE  OF 

If  in  the  universe  there  be  a  world 
Uncursed  by  sin,  beyond  conception  fair, 
Inhabited  with  intelligences  pure, 
Of  more  exalted  nature  than  our  own. 
And  perfect  in  enjoyment,  what  it  is 
That  forms  their  excellence  and  chief  delight, 
Not  one  of  human  kind,  without  a  soul 
Of  its  sublime  capacity  to  rise 
Unmindful,  and  a  heart  to  virtue  dead, 
Can  think  it  vain  to  know,  or,  knowing,  fail 
To  imitate.     Of  such  a  world  so  fair, 
Filled  with  inhabitants  so  pure  and  blest. 
And  with  the  visible  presence  of  the  Source 
Of  all  existence,  long  have  mortals  heard  ; 
And  of  each  being  in  that  happy  world. 
From  Him  who  sits  on  its  eternal  throne 
To  him  that  holds  the  humblest  station  there, 
Love  is  the  bliss,  the  glory  doing  good. 

Of  God's  benevolence,  proof  in  his  works 
From  their  beginning,  and  in  all  his  ways. 
Illustrious  shines.     What  motive,  but  desire 
To  give  felicity,  called  forth  his  might 
To  build  this  fair  creation ;  to  surround 
His  dwelling  in  the  immensity  of  space 
With  orb  encircling  orb,  to  give  to  dust 
The  happiness  of  life  in  countless  forms 
Delightful,  and  to  creatures  rational 
His  pure  immortal  nature  to  impart  ? 
Was  it  his  glory  ?     'Twas  his  goodness  still  ; 
For  both  are  one,  inseparably  one, 
God  seeks  not  his,  as  men  their  glory  seek  ; 
From  vain  ambition.     Earth  and  heaven  sublime 
Were  not  created  for  the  mere  display 
Of  power  and  skill  immeasurably  great ; 
Nor  men  and  angels  merely  to  admire 
The  wondrous  fabric,  and  its  Author  praise 
With  lofty  songs.     The  whole  grand  universe 
Is  not  an  empty  monument  of  fame  ; 
Nor  yet  a  monument,  on  a  wide  waste 


BENEVOLENCE.  101 

Erected,  for  no  purpose  known  to  man. 
'Tis  not  a  pageant  bright,  o'er  an  expanse 
Illimitable,  moving  with  vain  pomp, 
In  revolutions  vain.     The  glory  sought 
In  its  creation,  is  but  that  which  flows 
From  giving  happiness  with  bounteous  hand. 
Its  Maker,  full  of  goodness  infinite, 
Self-moved,  in  acts  beneficent  poured  forth 
Of  his  abundance,  as  the  sun,  all  light 
And  heat  itself,  cannot  but  shine  and  warm. 

On  each  created  thing  within  his  view, 
From  the  most  humble  to  the  most  sublime, 
Man  while  yet  sinless,  in  a' world  prepared 
For  happy  innocence  a  fit  abode. 
Beheld,  in  characters  entire  and  bright, 
The  impress  of  benevolence  divine. 
And  e'en  apostate  man,  by  reason  led, 
Unaided   reason,  in  a  world  defaced 
For  his  revolt,  beholds  remaining  marks 
Of  like  benevolence,  in  mercy  spared, 
When  just  had  been  a  universal  curse. 
Marks  of  its  primitive  glory  he  beholds 
Amid  its  desolations,  as  he  views 
Among  the  ruins  of  a  city,  famed 
For  ancient  splendour,  many  a  precious  stone. 
And  marble  fragment  beautifully  wrought. 
He  sees  them  in  the  grateful  interchange 
Of  day  and  night,  and  the  propitious  round 
Of  seasons ; — in  the  growth  of  forests  vast 
Where  winter's  cold  requires  the  cheering  flame. 
And,  when  these  fail,  in  mines  of  fuel  found 
Beneath  earth's  surface  ; — in  the  countless  streams 
That  streak  its  map  immense,  so  duly  ranged, 
Like  the  thick  branching  fibres  of  a  leaf. 
The  less  along  the  greater  on  each  side. 
Watering  the  whole  ; — in  genial  suns  and  rains. 
Combining  their  sweet  influences,  to  crown 
The  year  with  plenty  ; — in  the  thousand  plants 
Of  healing  virtue,  of  all  various  kinds, 


102  THE    AGE  OF 

Growing  at  hand  where  human  pain  is  felt ; — 

And  in  tlie  powers  by  which  each  living  thing, 

Down  to  the  meanest  and  the  most  minute, 

Finds  out  its  food,  where'er  its  lot  is  cast, 

Provided  there.     From  what  but  kindness  flow 

These  and  like  blessings  ?     Or  if  such  be  deemed 

Means  requisite  existence  to  prolong, 

E'en  though  unhappy,  other  proofs  remain 

Of  kindness,  clear  to  reason's  naked  eye. 

Why  this  profusion  in  the  fruits  of  earth, 

And  sweet  variety,  so  far  beyond 

The  mere  supply  of  nature's  simple  wants  ? 

Why  not  the  fruit  without  the  fragrant  flower  ? 

Or  if  the  fragrance  to  its  proper  food 

Attract  the  wandering  insect,  why  the  hues, 

Their  endless  beautiful  diversities. 

Enamelling  the  fields  and  verdant  groves  ? 

Why  is  man  fitted  to  receive  delight 

From  aught  that  he  beholds  ?     Why,  in  its  use. 

Is  not  each  sense  an  instrument  of  pain, 

Instead  of  pleasure  1     Why  with  objects  fair 

Is  the  eye  charmed,  and  with  melodious  sounds 

The  listening  ear  ?     Why  at  the  frugal  board, 

As  at  a  banquet,  is  the  taste  regaled. 

When  food  as  well  might  nourish,  though  devoid 

Of  flavour,  or  unpleasant,  and  the  love 

Of  life  instinctively  constrain  to  eat  ? 

'Twas  pure  good-will,  that  for  ungrateful  man 

Enjoyment  thus  for  its  own  sake  prepared. 

Nor  less  apparent  is  the  will  to  bless. 

In  that  delight  inferior  creatures  feel ; 

The  sporting  insects,  and  the  warbling  birds, 

The  bounding  and  the  ruminating  flocks, 

Yea,  all  the  tribes,  that  walk,  or  swim,  or  fly. 

His  providence  the  Lord  of  all  extends 

O'er  all  his  works,  not  merely  to  uphold, 

But  to  impart  enjoyment  to  all  ranks 

Of  conscious  being.     This  his  kind  extent, 

To  unassisted  reason,  if  not  blind 


BENEVOLENCE.  103 

From  deep  and  wilful  turpitude  of  heart, 
How  brightly  clear,  when  in  some  rural  scene 
Blooming  and  sunny,  fertile  fields,  green  woods, 
Pure  air  and  water,  with  fair  creatures  swarm. 
Seeming,  in  their  exuberance  of  good. 
Too  full  of  pleasure  for  a  moment's  rest ; 
And  when  this  rural  beauty  and  delight. 
Are  heightened  by  some  renovating  change. 
From  drought  to  showers,  or  from  foul  skies  to  fair  ! 

The  spring,  made  dreary  by  incessant  rain. 
Was  well  nigh  gone,  and  not  a  glimpse  appeared 
Of  vernal  loveliness,  but  light-green  turf 
Round  the  deep  babbling  fountain  in  the  vale, 
Or  by  the  rivulet  on  the  hill-side,  near 
Its  cultivated  base,  fronting  the  south, 
Where  in  the  first  warm  rays  of  March  it  sprung 
Amid  dissolving  snow  : — save  these  mere  specks 
Of  earliest  verdure,  with  a  few  pale  flowers. 
In  other  years  bright  blowing  soon  as  earth 
Unveils  her  face,  and  a  faint  vermil  tinge 
On  clumps  of  maple  of  the  softer  kind, 
Was  nothing  visible  to  give  to  May, 
Though  far  advanced,  an  aspect  more  like  her's 
Than  like  November's  universal  gloom. 
All  day  beneath  the  sheltering  hovel  stood 
The  drooping  herd,  or  lingered  near  to  ask 
The  food  of  winter.     A  few  lonely  birds. 
Of  those  that  in  this  northern  clime  remain 
Throughout  the  year,  and  in  the  dawn  of  spring, 
At  pleasant  noon,  from  their  unknown  retreat 
Come  suddenly  to  view  with  lively  notes. 
Or  those  that  soonest  to  this  clime  return 
From  warmer  regions,  in  thick  groves  were  seen, 
But  with  their  feathers  ruffled,  and  despoiled 
Of  all  their  glossy  lustre,  sitting  mute. 
Or  only  skipping,  with  a  single  chirp, 
In  quest  of  food.     Whene'er  the  heavy  clouds. 
That  half  way  down  the  mountain  side  oft  hung, 
As  if  o'erloaded  with  their  watery  store, 


1^4  THE    AGE    OF 

Were  parted,  though  with  motion  unobserved, 

Through  their  dark  opening,  white  with  snow  appeared 

Its  lowest,  e'en  its  cultivated,  peaks. 

With  sinking  heart  the  husbandman  surveyed 

The  melancholy  scene,  and  much  his  fears 

On  famine  dwelt ;  when,  suddenly  awaked 

At  the  first  glimpse  of  daylight,  by  the  sound, 

Long  time  unheard,  of  cheerful  martins,  near 

His  window,  round  their  dwelling  chirping  quick, 

With  spirits  by  hope  enlivened  up  he  sprung 

To  look  abroad,  and  to  his  joy  beheld 

A  sky  without  the  remnant  of  a  cloud. 

From  gloom  to  gayety  and  beauty  bright 

So  rapid  now  the  universal  change. 

The  rude  survey  it  with  delight  refined, 

And  e'en  the  thoughtless  talk  of  thanks  devout. 

Long  swoln  in  drenching  rain,  seeds,  germs,  and  buds, 

Start  at  the  touch  of  vivifying  beams. 

Moved  by  their  secret  force,  the  vital  lymph 

Diffusive  runs,  and  spreads  o'er  wood  and  field 

A  flood  of  verdure.     Clothed,  in  one  short  week. 

Is  naked  nature  in  her  full  attire. 

On  the  first  morn,  light  as  an  open  plain 

Is  all  the  woodland,  filled  with  sunbeams,  poured 

Through  the  bare  tops,  on  yellow  leaves  below, 

With  strong  reflection  :  on  the  last,  'tis  dark 

With  full-grown  foliage,  shading  all  within. 

In  one  short  week  the  orchard  buds  and  blooms  ; 

And  now,  when  steeped  in  dew  or  gentle  showers, 

It  yields  the  purest  sweetness  to  the  breeze. 

Or  all  the  tranquil  atmosphere  perfumes. 

E'en  from  the  juicy  leaves,  of  sudden  growth. 

And  the  rank  grass  of  steaming  ground,  the  air, 

Filled  with  a  watery  glimmering  receives 

A  grateful  smell,  exhaled  by  warming  rays. 

Each  day  are  heard,  and  almost  every  hour. 

New  notes  to  swell  the  music  of  the  groves. 

And  soon  the  latest  of  the  feathered  train 

At  evening  twilight  come  ; — the  lonely  snipe. 


BENEVOLENCE.  105 

O'er  marshy  fields,  high  in  the  dusky  air, 
Invisible,  but,  with  faint  tremulous  tones, 
Hovering  or  playing  o'er  the  listener's  head  ; — 
And,  in  mid-air,  the  sportive  night-hawk,  seen 
Flying  awhile  at  random,  uttering  oft 
A  cheerful  cry,  attended  with  a  shake 
Of  level  pinions,  dark,  but  when  upturned 
Against  the  brightness  of  the  western  sky. 
One  white  plume  showing  in  the  midst  of  each, 
Then  far  down  diving  with  loud  hollow  sound  ; — 
And,  deep  at  first  within  the  distant  wood. 
The  whip-poor-will,  her  name  her  only  song. 
She,  soon  as  children  from  the  noisy  sport 
Of  hooping,  laughing,  talking  with  all  tones. 
To  hear  the  echoes  of  the  empty  barn. 
Are  by  her  voice  diverted,  and  held  mute, 
Comes  to  the  margin  of  the  nearest  grove  ; 
And  when  the  twilight  deepened  into  night, 
Calls  them  within,  close  to  the  house  she  cornea, 
And  on  its  dark  side,  haply  on  the  step 
Of  unfrequented  door,  lighting  unseen. 
Breaks  into  strains  articulate  and  clear. 
The  closing  sometimes  quickened  as  in  sport. 
Now,  animate  throughout,  from  morn  to  eve 
All  harmony,  activity,  and  joy, 
Is  lovely  nature,  as  in  her  blest  prime. 
The  robin  to  the  garden,  or  green  yard, 
Close  to  the  door  repairs  to  build  again 
Within  her  wonted  tree  ;  and  at  her  work 
Seems  doubly  busy,  for  her  past  delay. 
Along  the  surface  of  the  winding  stream. 
Pursuing  every  turn,  gay  swallows  skim  ; 
Or  round  the  borders  of  the  spacious  lawn 
Fly  in  repeated  circles,  rising  o'er 
Hillock  and  fence,  with  motion  serpentine, 
Easy  and  light.     One  snatches  from  the  ground 
A  downy  feather,  and  then  upward  springs, 
Followed  by  others,  but  oft  drops  it  soon, 
In  playful  mood,  or  from  too  slight  a  hold, 
14 


106 


THE    AGE    OF 

When  all  at  once  dart  at  the  falling  prize. 
The  flippant  blackbird  with  light  yellow  crown, 
Hangs  flattering  in  the  air,  and  chatters  thick 
Till  her  breath  fail,  when,  breaking  off",  she  drops 
On  the  next  tree,  and  on  its  highest  limb. 
Or  some  tall  flag,  and  gently  rocking,  sits, 
Her  strain  repeating.     With  sonorous  notes 
Of  every  tone,  mixed  in  confusion  sweet, 
All  chanted  in  the  fulness  of  delight, 
The  forest  rings  : — where,  far  around  enclosed 
With  bushy  sides,  and  covered  high  above 
With  foliage  thick,  supported  by  bare  trunks, 
Like  pillars  rising  to  support  a  roof, 
It  seems  a  temple  vast,  the  space  within 
Rings  loud  and  clear  with  thrilling  melody. 
Apart,  but  near  the  choir,  with  voice  distinct. 
The  merry  mocking-bird  together  links 
In  one  continued  song  their  different  notes, 
Adding  new  life  and  sweetness  to  them  all. 
Hid  under  shrubs,  the  squirrel  that  in  fields 
Frequents  the  stony  wall  and  briery  fence, 
Here  chirps  so  shrill  that  human  feet  approach 
Unheard  till  just  upon  him,  when  with  cries 
Sudden  and  sharp  he  darts  to  his  retreat. 
Beneath  the  mossy  hillock  or  aged  tree  ; 
But  oft  a  moment  after  rcrappears. 
First  peeping  out,  then  starting  forth  at  once 
With  a  courageous  air,  yet  in  his  pranks 
Keeping  a  watchful  eye,  nor  venturing  far 
Till  left  unheeded.     In  rank  pastures  graze, 
Singly  and  mutely,  the  contented  herd  ; 
And  on  the  upland  rough  the  peaceful  sheep  ; 
Regardless  of  the  frolic  lambs,  that,  close 
Beside  them,  and  before  their  faces  prone, 
With  many  an  antic  leap,  and  butting  feint, 
Try  to  provoke  them  to  unite  in  sport. 
Or  grant  a  look,  till  tired  of  vain  attempts  ; 
When,  gathering  in  one  company  apart, 
All  vigour  and  delight,  away  they  run, 
Straight  to  the  utmost  corner  of  the  field 


BENEVOLENCE. 


107 


The  fence  beside ;  then,  wheeling,  disappear 

In  some  small  sandy  pit,  then  rise  to  view  ; 

Or  crowd  together  up  the  heap  of  earth 

Around  some  upturned  root  of  fallen  tree, 

And  on  its  top  a  trembling  moment  stand, 

Then  to  the  distant  flock  at  once  return. 

Exhilarated  by  the  general  joy. 

And  the  fair  prospect  of  a  fruitful  year. 

The  peasant,  with  light  heart,  and  nimble  step, 

His  work  pursues,  as  it  were  pastime  sweet. 

With  many  a  cheering  word,  his  willing  team. 

For  labour  fresh,  he  hastens  to  the  field 

Ere  morning  lose  its  coolness  ;  but  at  eve 

When  loosened  from  the  plough  and  homeward  turned, 

He  follows  slow  and  silent,  stopping  oft 

To  mark  the  daily  growth  of  tender  grain 

And  meadows  of  deep  verdure,  or  to  view 

His  scattered  flock  and  herd,  of  their  own  will 

Assembling  for  the  night  by  various  paths. 

The  old  now  freely  sporting  with  the  young. 

Or  labouring  with  uncouth  attempts  at  sport. 

When  so  luxuriant,  and  so  fair,  is  all 
Of  vegetative  growth,  and  on  all  sides 
Creatures  so  happy,  single,  and  in  groups, 
And  countless  multitudes,  attract  the  eye. 
The  thoughtfully  observant,  with  no  light 
But  that  reflected  hence,  if  such  there  be 
Without  that  clearer  light  from  heaven  direct, 
Cannot  o'erlook  the  goodness  of  the  Power 
Invisible,  that  thus  delights  to  bless. 

But  why  at  nature  gaze  with  pagan  eyes. 
And  only  at  her  fairest  happiest  scenes, 
When  revelation  shines,  and  gilds  the  whole  ? 
That  God  is  good,  and  nothing  does  but  good, 
Is  the  one  truth  of  his  whole  written  word. 
'Tis  the  deep  root,  that  to  this  tree  of  life 
All  its  vitality  and  beauty  gives. 
Turn  we  again  to  nature,  with  the  book 
Of  inspiration  open  in  our  hands 


108 


THE    AGE    OF 

To  be  our  guide,  no  longer  need  we  seek 

For  single  tokens  of  Jehovah's  love. 

All  things  declare  it,  and  with  accents  loud 

Call  for  loud  songs  of  gratitude  and  praise. 

The  gifts  of  heaven,  innumerable,  descend 

On  all  the  earth,  silent,  and  uniform, 

Like  dew  distilling  from  a  smiling  sky, 

Or  like  the  steady  falling  of  a  shower 

When  the  sun  shines,  and  gilds  the  drops  in  air. 

And  on  the  quivering  leaves,  and  bending  grass. 

Look  where  it  may,  the  opened  eye  of  faith 

Beholds  the  fulness  of  benevolence. 

And  oft  its  overflowing,  as  in  showers 

Falling  on  seas,  on  barren  rocks  and  sands ; — 

In  wholesome  fruit  within  the  wilderness, 

Growing  each  year,  and  perishing  uncropt ; — 

In  myriads  of  living  atoms,  found 

In  every  turf,  and  leaf,  and  breath  of  air, 

Too  small  indeed  for  unassisted  sight, 

But  not  too  small  to  feel  the  good  they  have. 

Nor  yet  unworthy  care   that  knows  no  bound. 

Illumined  by  the  rays  of  truth  divine, 

The  universe  a  lovely  aspect  wears, 

From  its  Creator's  universal  smile. 

About  its  vast  circumference  his  arms 

In  tender  love  are  stretched,  in  one  embrace 

The  whole  encircling,  as  the  milky  zone 

Surrounds  the  starry  firmament  immense. 

His  six  days'  work  completed,  God  ordained 
A  day  of  rest ;  but  not  from  further  care 
Of  his  creation  rested  he,  concealed 
In  a  pavilion  of  impervious  clouds, 
Nor,  like  a  Hindoo  deity,  entranced 
Or  sleeping  on  some  consecrated  height. 
Nor  merely  watching  with  all-seeing  eye 
The  movement  of  his  works.     His  outstretched  hand. 
When  he  had  sent  into  the  boundless  void 
The  rolling  spheres,  dropt  not  to  let  them  find 
Their  untried  way,  unguided,  unsustained, 


BENEVOLENCE. 

And  by  the  force  of  that  first  impulse  run 

Their  ceaseless  round.     No — had  he  thus  withdrawn 

His  active  power  immediate,  from  the  worlds, 

Created  by  his  might,  and  hid  himself 

Above  the  highest,  careless  of  them  all, 

How  in  an  instant  had  they  burst  their  bond 

Of  sweet  attraction,  flying  all  apart, 

Systems  and  constellations  mingling  wild. 

And  far  asunder  vanished  into  nought. 

Like  parted  bubbles  by  the  whirlwind  driven  ! 

Or  how  had  they  together  rushed,  and  sunk, 

A  mass  of  ruins,  in  a  vortex,  formed 

By  their  own  motion,  into  the  abyss  ! 

Had  he  once  turned  his  countenance  away 

From  this  fair  earth,  and  from  these  nether  skies, 

And  risen  to  show  its  light  no  more  below, 

Darkness  and  chaos  had  returned  amain, 

Closed  in  behind  him  even  to  his  throne. 

And  should  he  now  depart,  no  long-fixed  laws 

Could  still  preserve  the  spheres  in  harmony, 

And  in  accustomed  orbits  roll  them  on 

Through  regions  wide  of  unsubstantial  air. 

As  when  the  massy  weights,  that  move  the  clock 

Of  some  superb  cathedral,  for  its  age 

And  sanctity  a  venerable  pile. 

By  small  disorder  loosened  from  their  hold, 

Run  down  at  once,  with  sound  of  rushing  wheels, 

While  hands  enormous,  flying  their  wonted  round. 

Seem  to  the  thoughtful,  gazing  silently. 

Thus  in  a  moment  whirling  months  away. 

So  this  stupendous  complicate  machine 

Of  suns  and  systems,  wheeling  round  the  skies, 

Were  but  the  pressure  of  God's  finger  gone. 

Would  on  a  sudden  hasten  to  its  end 

With  tumult  loud,  cut  short  the  reign  of  time. 

And  spend  its  force  till  every  motion  ceased 

With  deadened  stop.     Should  the  Most  High  let  loose 

From  his  controlliiig  grasp,  the  elements 

Of  this  calm  globe,  the  sea  would  burst  its  bars. 


109 


110 


THE    AGE    OF 

And  deluge  every  land ;  or  furious  winds, 

With  earthquakes  and  volcanoes,  rage  and  waste 

With  universal  sway.     Or  should  he  leave 

To  work  alone,  what  men  call  principles 

Of  animal  and  vegetable  life. 

How  would  the  fields  and  forests,  though  arrayed 

In  summer's  gay  profusion,  all  at  once 

To  wintry  nakedness  and  gloom  return, 

And  every  creature,  though  with  vigour  flushed 

Or  pleasure,  die  as  with  a  single  stroke  ! 

How  desolate  were  nature,  and  how  void 

Of  every  charm,  how  like  a  naked  waste 

Of  Africa,  were  not  a  present  God 

Beheld  employing,  in  its  various  scenes. 

His  active  might  to  animate  and  adorn  ! 

What  life  and  beauty,  when  in  all  that  breathes, 

Or  moves,  or  grows,  his  hand  is  viewed  at  work  ! — 

When  it  is  viewed  unfolding  every  bud. 

Each  blossom  tinging,  shaping  every  leaf. 

Wafting  each  cloud  that  passes  o'er  the  sky, 

Rolling  each  billow,  moving  every  wing 

That  fans  the  air,  and  every  warbling  throat 

Heard  in  the  tuneful  woodlands.     In  the  least, 

As  well  as  in  the  greatest  of  his  works, 

Is  ever  manifest  his  presence  kind  ; 

As  well  in  swarms  of  glittering  insects,  seen 

Quick  to  and  fro  within  a  foot  of  air 

Dancing  a  merry  hour,  then  seen  no  more, 

As  in  the  systems  of  resplendent  worlds 

Through  time  revolving  in  unbounded  space. 

His  eye,  while  comprehending  in  one  view 

The  whole  creation,  fixes  full  on  me  ; 

As  on  me  shines  the  sun  with  his  full  blaze, 

While  o'er  the  hemisphere  he  spreads  the  same. 

His  hand,  while  holding  oceans  in  its  palm, 

And  compassing  the  skies,  surrounds  my  life, 

Guards  the  poor  rush-light  from  the  blast  of  death. 

O'er  men  and  angels,  and  o'er  all  beside 
With  understanding  formed  and  moral  sense. 


BENEVOLENCE. 

If  other  ranks  there  be,  unknown  on  earth, 

Dominion  absolute  the  King  of  heaven, 

In  majesty  maintains,  but  with  a  care    «- 

And  tenderness  parental,  clainnng  nought 

But  filial  love,  and  that  obedience,  due 

To  excellence  and  kindness  infinite, 

Their  gain  to  yield,  their  true  felicity 

Unspeakable  and  endless.     Here  shines  out 

Jehovah's  glory,  in  his  government 

Of  countless  beings  to  himself  allied; 

Here  in  his  moral  kingdom,  in  its  worth 

All  computation  of  created  powers 

Transcending  far,  as  far  as  it  transcends 

The  universe  of  life  irrational 

And  senseless  matter,  made  but  for  the  use 

Of  this  superior  universe  of  minds, 

And  but  for  this  preserved,  ennobled  thus 

With  grandeur,  and  with  beauty  thus  adorned. 

Through  his  intelligent  creation  reigns 

The  eternal  Sovereign,  with  supreme  control 

O'er  all  events,  all  actions,  and  all  hearts. 

In  pure  benevolence  directing  all. 

One  object  to  accomplish,  good  immense, 

The  best  and  greatest  good  by  boundless  power 

To  be  attained,  ore'en  to  be  conceived 

By  the  omniscient  mind.     For  this  he  doomed 

Apostate  angels  to  the  pit  of  wo 

Interminable,  and  the  faithful  fixed 

In  everlasting  innocence  and  bliss 

On  heavenly  thrones.     For  this  alone  he  rules 

Among  the  nations,  here  exalting  one. 

And  there  another  humbling  to  the  dust ; 

Here  sending  peace,  and  there  the  scourge  of  war  ; 

Here  planting,  and  there  rooting  out  from  earth. 

O  the  consoling  thought,  that,  from  this  world 

With  violence  covered,  shaken  by  the  tread 

Of  giant  conquerors  stalking  o'er  its  realms, 

The  shock  of  armed  hosts  together  dashed. 

The  revolutions  and  the  frequent  fall 

Of  mighty  empires,  whoso  will,  may  lift 


111 


112 


THE    AGE    OF 

His  pained  eye  to  heaven,  and  find  relief 

In  viewing  there,  high  on  a  spotless  throne, 

A  God  all  goodness  overruling  all 

Himself  to  show,  his  glory  to  augment, 

And  swell  the  tide  of  happiness  and  praise, 

To  roll  unmingled  through  eternity, 

And  unrestrained,  when  earth  has  passed  away  ! 

But,  far  ahove  all  others,  though  sublime, 
One  grand  display  of  goodness  infinite 
Rises  to  view,  astonishes,  attracts, 
Commands  the  admiration  of  high  heaven. 
The  gratitude  of  earth.     All  eyes  at  once 
To  Calvary  look,  for  this  supreme  display 
Of  greatness  and  benevolence  combined  ; 
To  man's  redemption  from  the  curse  deserved 
Of  death  eternal,  at  the  price  of  blood 
Poured  from  the  wounds  of  God's  expiring  Son, 
Poured  from  his  heart  of  overflowing  love. 
Here  all  the  glories  of  the  Godhead  meet. 
And  in  one  splendid  constellation  shine  ; 
Here  with  consummate  harmony  they  blend 
Their  various  beauties,  and  together  form 
A  token  of  mercy,  thrown  across  that  cloud 
Suspended  o'er  the  world,  with  vengeance  charged, 
Threatening  destruction.     Wisdom,  justice,  power, 
All  measureless,  to  this  stupendous  work 
The  grandeur  of  divinity  impart  ; 
But  love  imparts  the  loveliness  divine. 
Love,  love  unspeakable,  pervades  the  whole, 
Throughout  diflTusing  its  immortal  charms. 
Love  was  its  source  in  the  eternal  mind. 
And  its  accomplishment  was  wrought  by  love. 
Love  made  the  covenant  ere  time  began, 
And  love  fulfilled  it  at  the  destined  hour. 
'Twas  love  that  wept,  and  agonized,  and  died  ; 
That  rose  to  intercede,  and  judge,  and  reign. 
'Tis  love  unquenchable,  its  great  design 
Pursuing  still  intently,  that  sends  dow'n 
The  gracious  Spirit,  to  constrain,  and  fit. 
The  guilty,  proffered  pardon  to  receive 


BENEVOLENCE. 

The  lost,  salvation ;  and  almighty  love, 
Its  work  to  finish,  in  despite  of  earth. 
Sin,  death,  and  hell,  combined  for  its  defeat. 
Safely,  triumphantly,  to  heaven  conveys 
Trophies  innumerable,  there  to  shine 
Forever,  to  its  everlasting  praise. 

The  bleeding  cross,  howe'er  by  thankless  man 
Scorned  as  the  monument  of  his  deep  guilt, 
His  utter  helplessness,  ruin  entire. 
Entire  dependence  on  another's  aid, 
Is  yet  the  only  monument  that  shows. 
In  all  the  greatness  of  his  high  descent 
And  destiny  immortal,  his  true  worth 
In  Heaven's  account.     The  cross,  howe'er  despised. 
And  to  a  curse  perverted  by  the  blind, 
Is  yet  the  only  ladder  to  the  skies. 
For  men  to  climb,  or  angels  to  descend. 
Between  this  world  and  that  of  spirits  blest. 
Glad  intercourse,  without  the  cross,  were  none. 
The  earth,  united  by  no  golden  chain 
Of  mercy,  to  the  realm  of  innocence. 
By  none  united  to  the  throne  above. 
Would  run  alone  its  melancholy  course. 
By  its  Creator's  never-changing  frown 
Blasted  throughout,  presenting  to  the  sight 
Of  heaven's  pure  beings,  keeping  all  aloof, 
A  spectacle  of  horror  unrelieved. 
Torn  from  the  anchor.^  hope,  a  wreck  immense,, 
With  what  rapidity  and  terrible  force. 
Straight  toward  destruction  would  it  drive  along. 
From  its  whole  surface  sending  to  the  skies 
The  shrieks  and  wailings  of  despairing  men  ! 
Without  the  radiance  of  ethereal  day. 
From  the  third  heaven  let  down,  a  cheering  stream. 
Through  the  one  skylight  opened  by  the  cross. 
With  what  thick  darkness  were  this  dungeon  filled,. 
That  nothing  could  remove  and  none  endure  ! 
And  live  there  those,  within  this  heavenly  light. 
Who,  fond  of  darkness,  madly  shut  their  eyes» 
15 


113 


114 


THE    AGE  OF 

And  grope,  at  every  step,  in  painful  doubt 

Which  way  to  turn,  though  on  the  fatal  brink  ? 

As  if  upon  a  world  of  one  long  night 

A  sun  should  rise,  and  its  inhabitants, 

In  wilful  blindness,  should  still  feel  their  way, 

Stumbling  at  noon.     Is  there,  within  this  light, 

A  single  eye,  that  overlooks  the  cross, 

As  fabled,  or  not  needed  ?     Can  there  be 

An  eye,  that  never  watered  it  with  tears 

Of  penitence  and  love  ?  a  stubborn  knee. 

That  never  bowed  before  it  ?  or  a  hand 

That  never  clasped  it  with  the  energy 

Of  hope,  in  that  glad  moment  when  it  springs 

From  deep  despair  ?     O,  can  there  be  a  heart, 

That  never,  at  its  foot,  poured  out  itself 

In  supplications,  thanks,  and  humble  vows 

Of  unreserved  devotedness  till  death  ? 

Away  with  every  refuge  from  the  woes. 

Here  and  hereafter,  but  the  bleeding  cross ! 

Who  flees  to  any  other,  for  relief 

From  conscious  guilt,  and  misery,  is  undone  ; 

Who  leads  to  any  other,  them  that  wait 

His  guidance,  adds  their  ruin  to  his  own. 

And  on  himself  redoubled  vengeance  draws. 

Wo  to  the  men  who  tear  away  the  cross  ! 

Sole  prop  and  pillar  of  a  sinking  world. 

If  its  foundation  by  unhallowed  hands 

Be  undermined,  what,  what  can    give  support  ? 

But,  hush,  my  fears  !  it  rests  not  on  the  sand  ; 

The  raging  waves,  that  dash  against  its  base, 

Sink  harmless,  after  foaming  out  their  shame  : 

Quick,  at  the  voice  of  the  Almighty  Word, 

Away  they  shrink,  their  shallowness  betray. 

Stir  up,  and  leave  exposed  to  every  eye. 

The  foulness  at  the  bottom  ill  concealed. 

From  Calvary  springs  the  only  fount  of  life, 

Knowledge,  and  truth/'celestial.     Whoso  drinks 

Feels  immortality  begun  within. 

And  his  dim  vision  cleared  from  every  mist 


BENEVOLENCE. 

Of  doubt  and  ignorance  ;  its  virtues  high 

He  that  contemns,  is  wholly  dead  at  heart, 

And,  in  a  maze  of  errors  without  end 

Bewildered,  darkling  winds  his  joyless  way. 

Divine  Redeemer,  thou  art  truth  itself; 

In  thee  are  found  its  sum  and  living  source, 

Its  boundless  and  inestimable  stores. 

They  that  forsake  thee,  that  with  hands  profane 

From  thee  thy  uncreated  glory  wrest, 

Thy  independent  throne,  and  in  the  pride 

Of  false  philosophy,  refuse  to  sit 

Meek  learners  at  thy  feet,  how  fast  they  pass 

From  one  delusion  to  another  worse. 

Gone,  from  the  earliest  hesitating  thought 

Of  leaving  thee,  well  nigh  beyond  the  hope 

Of  restoration,  as  if  left  in  turn  ! 

One  step  from  thee,  thy  Godhead,  and  thy  cross 

Inseparable,  and  down  a  steep  descent, 

Down,  down  they  go,  with  bold  and  bolder  strides, 

Till,  all  restraint  thrown  off,  one  desperate  plunge 

Sink  them  below  the  light  of  truth  and  heaven, 

In  the  dread  gulf  of  infidelity, 

The  fatal  gulf     Between  this  rayless  depth, 

And  that  celestial  height,  from  which  they  leap 

Who  once  from  thee  depart,  exists  no  ground 

On  which  to  rest ;  all  is  but  empty  air  ; 

In  which  wide  void  each  pause  the  falling  make, 

Is  but  a  transient  hovering  on  the  wing. 

Saviour  of  men,  almighty  as  thou  art, 

And  infinite  in  mercy,  to  thy  throne. 

Though  human  argument  and  friendship  fail, 

Restore  the  wandering,  there  to  kneel  again 

In  adoration,  and  repeat  the  praise 

Of  thy  divine  perfections,  once  their  song. 

Turn  back  the  tide  of  error  flowing  wide. 

Bearing  away  the  boundaries  of  truth 

For  ages  fixed,  the  enclo^re  breaking  down 

Of  many  a  garden  planted  by  thy  hand. 

Laying  it  open  to  the  world's  wide  waste. 


UH 


116 


THE    AGE    OF 

'Tis  when  the  cross  is  preached,  and  only  then, 
That  from  the  pulpit  a  mysterious  power 
Goes  forth  to  renovate  the  moral  man. 
The  cross  imparts  vitality  divine, 
And  energy  omnipotent,  to  truth  ; 
To  its  whole  system,  ineffectual  else, 
Inanimate.     He  that,  without  it,  wields 
The  sacred  sword,  at  best,  in  mock  display, 
A  useless  weapon  flourishes  in  its  sheath  ; 
None  feel  its  edge,  none  fear  it.     Men  there  are, 
Men  of  illustrious  name,  that  have  employed 
Years  in  portraying  to  admiring  crowds. 
In  vivid  colours,  with  the  magic  hand 
Of  genius  guided  by  refining  taste, 
The  loveliness  of  virtue,  and  of  vice 
The  hideous  features,  and  in  urging  all. 
With  eloquent  tongue,  to  make  the  happy  choice, 
And,  at  the  end,  with  grief  and  self-reproach. 
Have  looked  around  in  vain  for  the  reformed. 
On  all  the  moral  field  within  its  reach. 
Their  beautiful  philosophy  has  fallen 
Powerless,  as  moonlight  cold  on  the  oold  snow. 
Convinced  at  length  of  this  its  impotence. 
And  taught  divinely  to  proclaim  instead 
Messiah  crucified,  on  the  same  field 
With  joy  have  they  beheld  an  aspect  new, 
From  fruits  abundant  of  immortal  growth. 
When  amid  frozen  seas,  mountains  of  ice. 
And  all  the  horrors  of  a  polar  clime, 
Moravia's  humble  but  heroic  sous 
The  bold  attempt  began,  truth  to  make  known 
To  the  besotted  Greenjander,  and  lead 
His  feet  into  the  path  of  virtue  and  life. 
They  pointed  to  the  heavens  thick  set  with  stars. 
All,  to  the  least,  twinkling  with  vivid  beams, 
Presenting  a  whole  living  firmament 
Through  the  clear  atmosphere,  intensely  cold, 
Of  his  long  wintry  night  ;  and  to  the  sun, 
Duly  returning  to  spread  o'er  his  vales 


BENEVOLENCE.  117 

A  sudden,  transitory,  summer  smile  : — 
To  these,  and  objects  visible  like  these, 
His  eye  they  long  directed,  and  from  them 
To  their  Creator  laboured  long  to  raise 
His  grovelling  thoughts,  devotion  to  inspire. 
And  teach  obedience;  while  with  stupid  awe 
He  gazed  and  listened,  or  with  wonder  wild, 
But  still  to  vice  remained  a  willing  slave, 
Till,  of  success  from  efforts  thus  pursued 
Despairing,  they  conducted  him  at  once 
A  ruined  wretch  to  Calvary,  when  with  guilt 
He  trembled  at  the  sight,  melted  in  love, 
'^  Shook  off  the  long-fixed  clinging  habit  of  sin, 
And  from  his  bestial  degradation  rose 
To  intellectual  and  virtuous  life. 
What  though  the  cross,  presented  to  the  view 
With  all  the  humbling  but  momentous  truths 
Inscribed  on  it,  offend  tlie  pride  of  man  ? 
Shall  it  be  hidden,  or  its  truths  effaced  ? 
Shall  dying  men  be  pleased  rather  than  saved  1 
When  one  who  traverses  some  polar  waste, 
Feels  the  benumbing  influence  of  the  cold 
Steal  o'er  him  in  a  grateful  drowsiness, 
Too  strong  to  be  resisted,  and  repays 
With  bitter  words,  while  sinkihg  in  the  snow, 
The  efforts  of  his  comrades  to  alarm 
And  rouse  him,  or  support  and  drag  him  on, 
Is  it  philanthrophy  to  please,  or  save  ? 
Will  not  their  hated  care  be  recompensed, 
When,  borne  beyond  the  danger,  and  restored 
To  feeling  and  to  reason,  he  pours  forth 
The  weeping  gratitude  of  a  full  heart  1 
And  will  the  kind  severity,  that  seeks 
To  rescue  those  seized  by  a  lethargy, 
Ending,  not  broke,  in  ever-dying  death, 
Receive  a  recompense  of  thanks  less  rich 
From  the  delivered  ?  Or  the  transient  scoff 
Of  those  delivered  never,  can  this  pain 
Like  their  eternal  curse,  and  that  of  Heaven, 


nS  THE    AGE  OF 

For  ministering  an  opiate  to  the  soul, 

To  gain  its  momentary  favour  here  ? 

Cruel  the  tenderness,  that  whispers  peace 

To  men  at  war  with  their  Redeemer,  men 

Who  scorn  his  clemency,  and  dare  his  wrath  ! 

And  O  how  false  the  friendship,  that  unites 

Preacher  and  hearer  in  the  ruinous  work 

Of  mutual  flattery ! — that  together  joins 

The  sacred  guide,  and  those  who  make  him  theirs, 

In  travelling  merrily  on  the  high  way 

Of  sin  and   error,  as  the  path  to  heaven. 

Praising  its  breadth  and  smoothness,  each  in  turn 

Cheering  and  cheered,  deceiving  and  deceived, 

Undoing  and  undone  !     Learn'd  he  may  be. 

And  eloquent,  who  yet  the  name  deserves 

Of  a  false  teacher,  false  in  head  and  heart ; 

But  learning,  with  its  boasted  powers,  arrayed 

Against  the  sweet  simplicity  of  truth, 

And  eloquence  from  counterfeited  warmth, 

The  painted  passion  of  a  mind  at  ease, 

How  vain  and  pitiful  in  all  their  pride  ! 

He  is  the  true  ambassador  of  Heaven, 

Whose  learning  is  the  knowledge  of  the  truth, 

Whose  eloquence  is  that  of  piety 

Enlightened  and  impassioned — now  a  flame 

Of  pure  devotion  rising  to  the  skies. 

And  now  a  stream  of  pure  benevolence 

Poured  down  on  man.     Of  such  the  mighty  theme, 

That  takes  supreme  possession  of  the  soul. 

The  bosom  swelling,  glowing  on  the  lips, 

Is  Christ,  the  Lord  of  Life,  dying  to  give 

Blest  immortality  to  wretched  foes  ; 

Exchanging,  in  the  plenitude  of  love. 

His  own  imperishable  crown  of  light 

For  man's  mock  diadem  of  wreathed  thorns. 

The  praise  of  angels  for  the  scoff" of  worms, 

The  infinite  beatitude  of  heaven 

For  pain  unutterable  on  the  cross. 

In  man's  redemption  what  o'erwhelming  proof 


BENEVOLENCE  US 

Of  God's  benevolence  !     From  first  to  last 

'Tis  one  stupendous  scheme  for  doing  good. 

'Tis  not  the  power  and  wisdom,  though  immense, 

But  the  unfathomable  depth  of  love. 

In  it  disclosed,  that  makes  it  what  it  is, 

The  hope  of  earth,  the  glory  of  the  skies, 

Of  both  the  wonder.     Needless  'tis  to  seek 

Beyond  it,  for  the  excellence  supreme 

Of  heaven's  Almighty,  and  his  chief  delight. 

But  here,  as  if  intent  on  robbing  God 
Of  goodness,  in  revenge  for  being  compelled. 
Against  the  strongest  wishes  to  confess 
E'en  his  existence,  with  a  fiendlike  joy 
The  infidel  exclaims,  and  thousands,  wronged 
In  their  own  view  if  ranked  with  him,  repeat, 
With  the  same  spirit  the  presumptuous  cry. 
Why  were  men  ruined  only  to  be  saved  1 
Why  all  destroyed  that  part  might  be  restored  ? 
No  answer  needs  perversion  of  the  truth 
So  wilful,  and  its  authors  look  for  none. 
Content  with  the  relief  of  vented  hate. 
With  thoughts  less  impious,  others  fondly  ask. 
Why  was  man  suffered  to  destroy  himself  ? 
Why  was  there  one  by  previous  wickedness 
Prepared  to  tempt  him  to  the  fatal  deed  ? 
Slept  the  Most  High,  while  Satan,  full  of  guile. 
Lurked  in  the  bowers  of  Eden,  to  seduce 
From  their  allegiance  the  first  happy  pair  ? 
And  after  their  revolt  did  he  awake 
Like  one  surprised,  and,  not  to  be  quite  foiled 
By  what  was  done  and  could  not  be  undone, 
Resolve  on  their  redemption  as  a  shift. 
The  best  expedient  of  a  straitened  mind. 
An  unforeseen  dilemma  to  escape  ? 
Or  held  he,  when  rebellion  in  the  breasts 
Of  angels  rose,  the  reins  of  government 
With  hand  relaxed,  till  sin  had  worked  its  way 
Into  the  heart  of  heaven  ?  and  then  in  wrath 
Resumed  he  them  with  more  determined  grasp. 


120 


THE    AGE    OF 

To  drive  it  thence  1    Lacked  he  the  knowledge,  power, 

Or  vigilance,  its  entrance  to  prevent  ? 

If  not,  why  left  he,  in  the  universe, 

One  door  unbarred,  by  which  this  enemy 

Could  gain  admission?     Why  not  shut  it  out 

From  his  whole  kingdom  with  a  single  word, 

As  he  excludes  it  now,  and  will  henceforth. 

From  all  the  heavenly  regions  ?     Other  cause 

Than  his  eternal  will,  acting  in  view 

Of  good  to  be  effected  by  its  means 

Under  his  fullcontroul,  is  sought  in  vain 

By  groping  mortals.     Of  its  origin. 

Its  first  conception  in  a  heart  upright. 

And  in  the  power,  too,  of  the  Holy  One, 

They  nothing  know,  and  nothing  need  to  know, 

But  that,  created  free,  angels  and  men 

Fell  from  the  height  of  rectitude  and  bliss 

Divinely  pure,  by  their  own  willing  act, 

Nor  thwarted  in  the  least  God's  perfect  plan 

Unalterable,  nor  involved  in  guilt 

His  character  with  theirs,     A  mystery  this ! 

A  truth  to  be  believed,  and  not  explained  ! 

The  proud  demand  of  mortals,  that  its  depths 

Be  fathomed,  and  laid  open  to  their  view, 

To  gain  their  faith,  is  vain  impiety. 

'Tis  prompted  by  a  wish  to  take  the  throne. 

And,  knowing  good  and  evil,  be  as  gods. 

Rather  should  thanks  be  offered,  that  while  here 

That  only  is  revealed  to  claim  their  thoughts, 

Which  leads  to  present  duty,  and  prepares 

For  an  eternity  of  light  and  joy. 

It  best  befits  them,  with  absorbing  awe, 

Childlike  simplicity  of  mind  and  heart, 

And  meek  dependence  on  the  Spirit  of  truth 

For  needful  aid,  to  make  it  their  employ 

To  learn  what  their  Creator  has  declared 

In  his  pure  oracles,  and  that  receive 

Without  a  doubt  or  murmur,  nor  inquire 

Beyond  it  for  the  secrets  of  his  will. 


BENEVOLENCE. 

On  many  a  sacred  page  resemblance  clear 
Of  that  sublimer  good,  from  sin  controlled 
By  God's  benevolence  to  be  secured 
To  his  great  kingdom,  shines  in  some  event 
Of  transient  date.     The  picture  is  complete  ; 
A  hand  divine  has  given,  with  matchless  skill, 
The  last  bright  touches  ;  and  their  beauty  strikes 
More  for  the  previous  shades  and  darker  ground. 
The  whole  transaction  meets  the  view  at  once  ; 
And,  nothing  doubting  what  part  to  ascribe 
To  guilty  men,  what  to  their  righteous  King, 
We  render  homage,  willing  or  constrained, 
To  his  transcendent  grace,  their  wickedness 
Controlling,  and  directing  to  produce 
A  tenfold  blessing  for  the  curse  they  meant : 
Their  malice,  burning  only  to  destroy, 
He  overrules  in  clemency  to  save. 
All  darkness  seems  at  first,  and  all  along 
The  following  course  ;  but  on  the  close  is  poured 
A  flood  of  light,  whose  splendour,  shining  back 
O'er  the  past  gloom,  reveals  to  our  dim  eyes 
The  golden  thread  of  providence  benign 
Through  the  dark  tissue  drawn,  and  brighter  far 
Than  if  around  it  all  had  been  as  bright. 

Since,  then,  in  the  events  of  days  and  years 
Our  faint  and  limited  vision  oft  discerns 
Evil,  as  used  by  the  all-wise  Supreme, 
To  greater  good  redounding,  wherefore  doubt 
The  like  result  of  that  grand  system,  formed 
Of  these  combined,  as  ocean  of  its  drops  ? 
Will  goodness  infinite  expend  itself 
On  these  inferior  parts,  and  leave  the  whole 
Without  its  care,  to  a  disastrous  fate  ? 
If  either,  sure  the  former  were  o'erlooked 
By  heaven's  great  Monarch.     Of  his  kind  regard 
Both,  as  they  need,  receiving,  both  e'en  now 
Were  seen  to  be  o'erruled  alike  for  good 
Were  they  alike  complete,  and  brought  within 
The  sphere  of  vision  now  the  lot  of  man. 
16 


121 


1^  THE    AGE    OF 

Of  God's  whole  plan,  in  its  infinitude 
Of  length  and  breadth,  how  little,  in  this  state 
Of  imperfection,  can  we  mortals  know  ! 
What  influence  of  great  moment  hid  from  us 
The  part  revealed  may  have  beyond  itself, 
On  universal  being,  none  can  tell. 
In  his  obscure  economy  below, 
Designs  the  Governor  of  all  may  have, 
Of  which  no  human  mind  has  ever  dreamed. 
Earth,  with  its  mingled  scenes  of  good  and  ill, 
Judgment  and  mercy,  to  the  universe 
For  which  he  acts,  may  bear,  beside  its  known, 
Other  relations,  of  extent  immense, 
And  infinite  weight.     Were  myriads  of  stars 
Made  but  for  nightly  lamps  to  this  one  globe. 
When  hung  so  high  in  the  cerulean  vault. 
That  all  the  feeble  scattered  rays,  prolonged 
Down  to  this  depth,  scarce  make  the  darkness  less  1- 
And  when  a  single  orb,  low  in  the  sky, 
Outshines  them  all  ?     If,  rather,  like  our  own, 
Suns  to  attendant  spheres  they  kindly  roll  ; 
Rising  and  setting  to  give  interchange 
Of  light  and  darkness  ;  vallies,  hills,  and  plains 
Clothing  with  yearly  or  perrennial  fruits. 
And  flowery  verdure ;  shine  they  not  to  bless 
Creatures  of  rational  immortal  kind. 
Throughout  their  wide  dominion  ?     Or  has  God, 
All  spirit  and  intelligence  himself, 
And  these  esteeming  infinitely  best 
Of  all  his  works,  and  when  recorded  stands 
His  declaration,  that  he  formed  the  earth 
To  be  inhabited,  and  not  in  vain, 
Built  the  whole  fabric  of  celestial  orbs 
But  to  exist  a  mass  of  matter  void, 
A  wilderness  enormous,  where  are  none 
Of  the  delightful  sights  and  sounds  of  life. 
But  awful  silence,  splendid  barrenness 
And  desolation  ?  Ill  conceived  of  thee, 
Father  of  lights !  Thy  wisdom  prompts  the  thought 


BENEVOLENCE.  123 

That  here  must  be  the  populous  abodes 

Of  beings,  formed  to  serve  thee,  and  enjoy. 

These  all,  perhaps,  are  sinless,  and  now  reap 

The  fruits  of  their  obedience  ; — feel  no  pain 

And  fear  no  evil ;  in  communion  live 

With  God  and  angels  ;  and,  forever  near 

The  world  of  glory,  bask  in  its  full  blaze. 

And  he,  in  understanding,  may  not  err. 

More  than  in  heart,  who  oft,  at  peaceful  eve. 

Looks  on  the  sky  as  filled  with  peopled  orbs. 

Whence  universal  hymns  of  praise  ascend 

To  the  third  heaven — till,  earth  and  e'en  himself 

Forgetting,  living  like  a  spirit  free. 

In  thoughts  ethereal  rapt,  he  seem  to  hear 

The  distant  melody.     As  in  a  day, 

When  earth  is  darkened  by  thick  stormy  clouds. 

The  sun,  above  those  clouds,  shines  unobscured. 

Covering  their  restless  waves  with  changing  hues, 

Spangles,  and  rainbows  ;  and  on  high  is  nought 

But  one  immensity  of  radiance  bright, 

Of  clear  and  tranquil  beauty  one  expanse  ; 

So,  in  the  intelligent  creation,  all 

Beyond  this  world  and  that  of  hell  beneath. 

Beyond  the  gloom  that  overhangs  this  scene, 

All  may  be  light,  and  purity,  and  peace, 

And  perfect  loveliness.     This,  and  the  world 

Infernal,  may  then,  haply,  be  set  forth 

Examples  for  the  subjects  of  a  realm 

Extended  o'er  the  globes,  the  systems  wide. 

Lighted  by  eighty  millions  of  bright  suns. 

Whose  beams  the  telescope  has  brought  to  earth, 

And  by  those  millions  more,  in  the  blue  deep 

Yet  undescried— examples  for  their  good  ; 

The  one  of  justice,  for  their  warning  given  ; 

The  other  of  sweet  mercy,  for  their  faith. 

The  Ruler  of  a  kingdom  thus  immense 

In  its  extent,  and  weighty  in  its  charge. 

Might  deem  it  best  that  his  whole  character 

Be  tried  and  proved  ;  that  righteousness  and  grace, 


124  THE    AGE    OF 

Seeming  at  variance,  be  together  brought 
In  union  wonderful,  and  thus  displayed, 
Before  all  eyes,  in  living  monuments, 
Like  other  attributes  in  other  works. 

But  cease  these  fancies  !  death  may  dissipate 
The  whole  at  once,  for  a  more  glorious  scene. 
To  firmer  ground  I  gladly  turn  for  rest. 
Though  on  this  theme,  the  wonder  of  the  sage 
In  every  country,  and  the  scoff  of  fools, 
In  spite  of  reason  and  conjecture,  much 
Remain  unsolved,  and  must  while  time  endures, 
Enough  is  seen  in  providence,  and  fixed 
By  sacred  promise,  for  unwavering  trust. 
Till  the  full  end,  when  vision  will  be  full. 
Assured  that  sin  the  limit  cannot  pass 
Of  Heaven's  permission,  that  omnipotence 
Has  bounded  its  proud  waves,  and  that,  at  length, 
The  eternal  Being,  who  surveys  the  end 
From  the  beginning,  will  reveal  its  use. 
In  that  superior  good,  to  be  wrought  out . 
From  all  its  evil,  wherefore  should  we  scorn 
The  wisdom  bidding  us  our  murmurs  hush 
And  vain  alarms,  renounce  our  arguments 
And  fond  surmises,  and  in  silence  wait 
Till  the  great  terminating  scene  arrive  ? 
Why  should  we  be  like  savages  untaught, 
Who,  while  the  sun  is  shrouded  in  eclipse, 
Raise  their  tumultuous  outcries,  thence  to  drive 
The  fancied  monster,  in  their  narrow  view 
Extinguishing  the  luminary  of  day, 
When  standing  still  an  hour,  with  watching  eye. 
Would  show  him  moving  onward  as  before. 
With  lustre  unimpaired  ?  Why  should  we  fear 
The  blotting  or  diminishing  of  the  light 
Of  heaven  and  earth,  the  glory  of  their  King, 
Ere  the  result  of  what  may  seem  awhile 
Mysterious  interruption  ?  Why  pronounce 
The  scheme  of  providence  in  aught  unwise 
Or  undesirable,  till  it  be  known 


BENEVOLENCE. 

E'en  to  the  end  ?  The  end  is  coming  on  ; 
The  issue  of  these  mixed  events  below, 
The  winding  up  of  all  terrestrial  scenes  ; 
The  day  of  consummation  ; — solemn  close 
Of  past  eternity,  of  that  to  come 
Beginning  grand  ; — a  common  centre,  both 
In  one  uniting,  like  a  strait  between 
Two  shoreless  oceans,  at  which  all  things  meet, 
Their  only  passage  ; — rendezvous  sublime 
Of  angels  and  of  men,  in  that  dead  pause 
Between  the  old  creation  and  the  new, — 
What  time  harmonious  orbs  in  stillness  wait, 
Their  changes  broken,  for  Jehovah's  voice 
To  bid  their  moving  concert  be  resumed  ; — 
Of  all  things,  great  and  small,  evil  and  good, 
A  full  review,  when  the  first  heaven  and  earth 
Have  pass'd  away,  and  ere  a  second  rise. 

The  set  time  this  to  ope  the  sealed  book 
Of  providence,  before  assembled  worlds. 
Come  all  and  meditate  the  wondrous  scenes, 
The  joyful  and  the  terrible,  that  pass 
In  order,  at  the  opening  of  each  seal. 
See  the  disclosure,  now,  of  hidden  things 
In  God's  impartial  plan  ;  of  others,  wrapt 
In  dubious  gloom  the  evolution  full. 
See  now  the  clearing  up  of  time's  dark  day. 
The  clouds  dispersed,  the  elements  at  rest. 
And  all  more  beautiful  than  ere  the  storm  : 
The  sun  sends  forth  a  brighter  blaze  of  beams  ; 
Glad  nature  rings  with  more  melodious  notes  ; 
And  sweeter  smiles,  with  renovated  charms. 
Beneath  a  purer  and  serener  sky. 

Thus  when  this  growing  system  is  mature  ; 
When  it  has  reached  its  limits,  and  the  day 
Set  for  the  full  review  of  its  concerns 
Varied  and  countless,  has  arrived,  and  passed, 
Then  shall  the  morning  of  eternity, 
Its  inexpressible  perfection  show. 
'Tis  now  like  the  creation  in  the  midst 


125 


126  THE    AGE    OF 

Of  that  eventful  week,  in  which  the  work 
Was  in  its  progress  under  God's  right  hand, 
But  half  completed  ;  when  illumined  here, 
There  darksome  still ;  exulting  here  with  life, 
There  wholly  desolate  ;  here  finely  formed, 
And  there  yet  shapeless.     But,  as  at  the  end 
Of  that  grand  period  the  Creator  viewed. 
With  infinite  delight,  his  finished  works, 
And  their  surpassing  excellence  pronounced. 
So  shall  it  be  at  the  concluding  scene 
Of  checkered  time.     Then,  too,  the  morning  stars 
Shall  sing  together  ;  the  bright  sons  of  God 
Shall  shout  for  joy  ;  and  heaven  a  loud  response 
From  all  her  ransomed  multitudes  resound. 

Now  from  all  quarters  of  the  universe. 
Streams  of  pure  glory,  due  to  Him  who  thus 
In  the  supremacy  of  goodness  reigns. 
Come  pouring  into  paradise,  that  vast 
And  central  ocean.      At  the  gathering  flood 
Transported  gaze,  they,  who  for  this  result 
Waited  with  humble  confidence  in  time. 
Of  the  Most  High,  his  various  works  and  ways. 
Immeasurably  more   they  now  behold 
In  one  glad  hour,  than,  in  their  mortal  state, 
Imagination,  though  by  faith  enlarged. 
And  purified  by  love,  had  e'er  conceived. 
All  former  knowledge  shrinks  to  nothing  now. 
The  wisest  of  astronomers,  when  a  child, 
What  knew  he  of  the  sun,  and  starry  hosts  1 — 
Their  revolution,  distance,  magnitude. 
And  order  intricate  and  yet  complete  ? 
What  saw  he  in  the  lighted  sky  at  eve, 
But  twinkling  sparks,  as  in  the  dusky  air. 
Almost  within  the  reach  of  his  fond  hands. 
Thrown  upward  in  the  wildness  of  delight  ? 
A  Newton  in  his  infancy,  is  he. 
Who,  while  on  earth,  is  future  heir  of  heaven. 
Yet,  when,  in  full  maturity,  he  comes 
To  his  inheritance,  he  but  begins 


BENEVOLENCE.  12T 

The  glories  of  the  Godhead  to  discern, 

And  of  a  few  know  something  ;  destined  thence 

To  make  sublime  advances  without  end, 

In  this  the  only  knowledge  of  true  worth. 

More  of  that  universal  government, 

Established  and  administered  in  love, 

He  still  discovers,  after  ages  spent 

In  contemplation  on  the  wondrous  theme. 

As  up  the  heights  of  immortality 

He  climbs  unwearied,  to  his  ravished  eye 

The  prospect  larger  grows  on  every  side, 

The  firmament  swells  upward  and  around. 

While  its  apparent  splendours  every  hour 

In  number  and  in  brilliancy  increase. 

Thus,  in  progression  endless,  toward  the  Source 

Of  light,  move  onward  all  the  saints  above. 

With  joyful  ardour,  never  to  be  quenched. 

But  where  are  now  the  men  of  stubborn  heart, 
Who,  all  the  season  allotted  to  make  peace 
With  their  Creator,  placable  though  just. 
Stood  out  against  him  ?     In  what  guise  appear 
Before  the  last  tribunal,  they,  who  oft. 
Despising  faith  where  comprehension  fails. 
At  reason's  bar  pronounced  their  Judge  unjust, 
Because  his  footsteps  were  unsearchable. 
Now  in  the  clouds,  and  now  along  the  deep  ? 
They  stand  convinced,  appalled,  and  silently 
Await  their  doom.     Now  the  rebellious  words, 
Utter'd  against  the  providence  of  Heaven, 
Whene'r  it  frown'd  on  them,  or  seem'd  to  frown, 
Like  arrows  impiously  and  vainly  shot, 
By  Thracians,  at  the  lowering  thundercloud 
When  low  and  near,  on  their  own  heads  return 
In  righteous  vengeance.     Now  in  agony 
They  own  the  justice  of  the  Lord  of  all. 
While  under  its  condemning  power  they  sink 
To  uttermost  perdition,  the  desert 
Of  unrepented  sin,  their  destiny 
Ordained  by  thee,  thou  Arbiter  supreme. 


128  THE    AGE    OP 

The  certainty,  and  rectitude,  of  this 

Thy  dread  decree,  what  mortal  dare  deny  ? 

Great  Lawgiver  of  all  worHs,  'tis  thine  to  fix 

The  statutes  of  thy  kingdom,  and  enforce 

Their  due  observance,  by  the  penalty 

In  thy  unerring  wisdom  deem'd  the  best. 

No  pleasure  from  the  misery  of  his  foes 
Can  God  derive  ;  His  character  and  word 
Forbid,  that,  like  a  tyrant,  he  should  feast 
Upon  their  torments.     His  benevolence, 
Shown  in  the  blessings  lavished  on  them  here  ; 
In  that  transcendent  gift,  forfeited  heaven 
To  purchase  for  them ;  in  the  offer  made 
Of  pardon  on  repenting,  made  again 
Oft  as  rejected,  with  entreaties  pressed 
And  warnings  merciful,  forbids  the  thought. 
But  from  their  punishment,  in  its  effects 
Upon  a  government  with  wisdom  planned, 
He  does  derive  such  pleasure  as  becomes 
A  gracious  Monarch,  who  the  welfare  loves 
Of  his  whole  kingdom,  more  than  that  of  those 
Who  break  its  sacred  laws,  madly  abuse 
All  clemency,  and  enemies  remain 
Incorrigible.     'Tis  the  general  weal, 
That  calls  for  vengeance  on  the  rebel's  head. 
Thus  justice  to  benevolence  is  changed, 
And  judgment  into  mercy.     Hell  is  made 
The  woful  dungeon  of  the  universe, 
Where  universal  foes,  and  only  such. 
In  sad  imprisonment  forever  lie. 
Its  depths  were  hollowed  out,  its  gloomy  walls 
Raised,  for  the  peace  of  heaven  ;  and  for  the  peace 
Of  God's  whole  empire  they  remain,  and  will 
Until  rebellion  be  no  more  a  crime. 
Those  everduring  chains  were  forged  in  love 
Impartial ;  perfect  goodness  binds  them  on, 
And  turns  the  fatal  key,  that  locks  up  all. 
Who  enter  once  that  dreadful  gate,  unlocked 
To  none  returning.     To  the  inmost  seat 


BENEVOLENCE.  139 

Of  feeling  tortured  by  this  thought,  how  writhe 

The  guilty  sufferers  !  Could  they  but  discern, 

On  the  white  throne  above,  the  slightest  stain 

Of  cruelty  or  injustice,  'twere  enough 

To  give  them  fortitude  to  bear  the  worst. 

But  how  can  they  be  strong,  in  hand  or  heart, 

To  suffer  or  resist,  when  they  behold 

Benevolence  and  equity  combined, 

In  their  eternal  exile  from  the  climes 

Of  light  and  happiness  ?  How  can  they  meet 

Love  armed  in  the  dread  panoply  of  wrath, 

To  take  its  righteous  vengeance  ?  How  endure 

From  their  Redeemer  to  receive  their  doom  ? 

How  can  they  stand  before  the  Lamb  incensed  ? 

The  meek,  the  spotless,  self-devoted  Lamb  ? 

How  will  it  give  to  their  despair  a  sting 

Of  keen  and  piercing  agony,  to  think 

That  He,  who  on  the  seat  of  judgment  high, 

Arrayed  in  robes  of  majesty  supreme, 

Sits  to  condemn  them,  is  that  Prince  of  Peace, 

Who  once,  in  accents  of  compassion  sweet, 

Of  weeping  condescension  infinite. 

Pleaded  for  their  acceptance  of  his  love ! 

Ah  me  !  what  bitterness,  to  drink,  and  drink 

Forever,  of  the  cup  of  penal  wrath 

Unmingled,  from  the  hand  that  once  held  out 

The  cup  of  free  salvation  ;  from  that  hand, 

Which  always  gladly  healed  the  broken  heart, 

And  bound  up  all  its  wounds  ;  from  that  same  hand 

Once  stretched  upon  the  cross,  streaming  with  blood  ! 

If,  in  that  great  development  to  come. 
Of  all  things  hidden,  sin  reflect  no  blame 
On  heaven's  high  Ruler,  then  will  misery  none  ; 
For,  sin  admitted,  misery  should  ensue, 
Whither  it  goes  should  follow,  where  it  dwells 
Should  with  it  dwell,  inseparably  joined  ; 
A  world  of  guilt  should  be  a  world  of  pain. 
And  if,  from  the  insufferable  woes 
Of  an  undone  eternity,  no  cry 
17 


130  THE    AGE   OF 

Of  just  reproach  ascend  to  heaven,  then  none 
From  all  the  slight  calamities  of  time 
-    Can  e'er  ascend.     But  wherefore  will  not  God, 
E'en  now,  from  ills,  on  others  brought,  exempt 
The  offspring  of  regenerating  grace, 
The  children  of  his  love  ?     Imperfect  yet, 
They  need  the  chasteningsof  paternal  care, 
To  save  them  from  the  wily  blandishments 
Of  error,  and  to  win  their  hearts  away 
From  the  polluting,  ruining  joys  of  earth. 
Though  from  its  height  of  sole  authority. 
O'er  all  the  moving  principles  within. 
Sin  be  deposed,  it  struggles  to  regain 
Its  lost  dominion,  till  they  half  consent, 
When  all  their  trust  is  not  in  borrowed  might. 
To  yield  the  conflict.     Though  his  head  be  crushed, 
The  serpent  lives,  and  shows  what  spite  he  can. 
E'en  till  their  sun  go  down.     Not  chastened  then. 
No  proof  were  given  they  were  not  past  reform, 
And  left  as  reprobate,  to  be  prepared 
By  mercies  for  an  aggravated  doom. 
See  they  not  often  now,  and  will  they  not 
Hereafter  see,  that  when  they  murmured  most 
They  should  have  sung  the  highest  notes  of  praise  ? 
When  from  the  skies  they  cast  a  look  below, 
Methinks  they  will  esteem  their  path  too  smooth 
And  level,  for  transgressors  bound  to  heaven. 
O,  had  it  been  a  steeper,  rougher  ascent, 
Then  had  they  risen  more  rapidly,  and  gained 
An  exaltation  of  superior  bliss  ! 
Becomes  it  them,  to  eye  with  sad  distrust, 
That  hand  of  a  compassionate  Parent,  laid 
Heavily  on  them,  while  for  their  support 
His  other  is  extended  underneath, 
And  filled  with  richer  blessings  in  reserve  ? 
Should  they  not  rather  welcome  the  kind  stroke, 
That  humbles  but  to  fit  them  for  a  throne  ? 
Should  they  not  even  beg  their  heavenly  Guide 
To  bar  up,  or  to  plant  with  thorns,  each  path, 


BENEVOLENCE. 

However  flowery,  that  would  lead  astray  ; 

And  to  imbitter  all  forbidden  fruit 

Soliciting  their  taste,  however  fair  1 

Were  not  the  world  to  them  unlovely  made, 

Heaven  were  forgotten,  or  without  desire 

Remembered,  and  without  foretasting  faith. 

Like  the  thick  grove,  that  only  when  deprived 

Of  its  gay  foliage,  through  it  shows,  beyond, 

Green  fields,  the  ocean,  the  resplendent  sky, 

Earth  must  be  stript  of  charms,  to  let  them  see 

The  loveliness  of  paradise  beyond, 

The  vast  bright  prospect  of  eternity. 

Were  nothing  but  enjoyment  theirs  below, 

Were  all  prosperity,  their  hearts  were  here, 

And  here  their  portion.     Were  they  undisturbed, 

Their  day  of  trial  were  spent  in  fatal  sleep. 

'Tis  when  the  world  disowns  them,  turns  them  out 

From  every  resting  place  as  none  of  hers, 

That  they  pursue  with  quick  and  vigorous  step 

Their  pilgrimage,  and  muse  upon  its  end 

With  panting  hope  and  elevating  joy. 

When  by  affliction  purified,  and  weaned 

From  sublunary  toys,  with  what  delight 

They  cleave  to  Him  in  whose  embrace  is  found 

The  only  rest,  and  welcome  the  approach 

Of  that  great  change  of  being,  to  be  passed 

Only  to  wing  them  for  a  speedy  flight 

Into  his  unveiled  presence,  there  to  find 

Pleasures  augmented  by  griefs  left  below  ! 

There,  long  possessed,  the  due  inheritance 

Of  angels,  whom  no  suffering  ever  reached, 

Is  sweet  indeed  ;  but,  the  reward  of  saints, 

Rest  after  toil,  and  after  conflict  peace. 

Light  out  of  darkness,  out  of  sorrow  joy, 

Life  from  the  grave,  and  paradise  from  earth. 

Nay,  from  the  brink  of  hell,  how  passing  sweet  I 

There  with  what  loveliness  the  spirit  shines. 

When,  through  afflictions,  from  defilement  deep 

Raised  to  angelic  purity,  from  death 


131 


133 


THE    AGE    OP 

To  the  perfection  of  celestial  life  ! 

So  from  the  filthy  bottom  of  the  pool, 

Up  through  its  waters,  to  the  surface  springs 

The  lily,  and  there  blooms  a  perfect  flower, 

Of  brilliant  whiteness,  beautifully  pure. 

And  what  more  lovely  object  here  below. 

Or  more  exalted,  than  a  mortal,  weak 

And  tender,  looking  upward  in  the  midst 

Of  painful  visitations,  with  an  eye 

By  faith  illumined,  and  a  brow  serene 

From  heartfelt  peace  and  acquiescence  full 

In  Heaven's  high  will  ;  and  out  of  deep  distress 

Rising  invigorated,  and  prepared 

For  generous  deeds  impossible  before  ? 

'Tis  resignation,  so  unfeigned,  entire, 

And  happy,  by  severe  affliction  proved. 

When  nature  in  her  tenderness  resists. 

That  shines  the  fairest  victory  of  grace. 

In  early  wedlock  joined,  when  all  things  wore 
An  aspect  bright  with  promised  happiness, 
Orville  and  Charlotte  were  a  pair  beloved 
For  intellectual  and  moral  worth  ; 
For  knowledge,  both  the  useful  and  refined. 
Taste  uncorrupt,  feeling  benevolent. 
Sweetness  of  temper,  gentleness  of  mien, 
And  undissembled  piety,  the  soul 
Of  all  their  virtues.     Undisturbed,  awhile, 
In  their  felicity,  they  passed  along. 
One  in  their  studies,  duties,  pleasures  pure, 
Guiding  and  guided  each,  blessing  and  blessed. 
Sweet  intercourse  between  congenial  minds  ! 
And  sweeter  interchange  of  kindred  hearts  ! 
Together  they  with  like  devotion  scanned 
The  heavenly  orbs,  traversed  the  map  of  earth 
With  equal  skill,  dwelt  on  her  history 
With  like  astonishment  at  human  crimes 
And  God's  forbearance,  to  exalted  verse 
Gave  vocal  melody  with  equal  gust. 
Nor  did  they  for  the  fashionable  muse 


BENEVOLENCE. 

The  classic  quite  forsake.     Nigh  them  they  kepi 

The  poet  of  humanity  and  truth, 

Of  simple  nature  and  religion  pure, 

The  lovely  Cowper  ;  and,  at  every  word 

Against  his  fame,  felt  wounded  in  a  friend. 

Nor  to  the  crowded  shelf,  to  be  forgot, 

Was  Milton  e'er  removed  ; — seraphic  bard  ! 

Sweetly  sublime,  in  paradise  above  ! 

In  paradise  below,  sublimely  sweet ! 

There  lofty  numbers,  and  melifluous  here, 

Grandeur  and  beauty  every  where,  command 

Breathless  attention,  and  within  them  wake 

Those  finer  strings,  that,  at  the  thrilling  touch 

Of  mighty  genius,  quiver  with  keen  delight. 

Together  over  flowery  fields  and  woods 

They  rambled,  in  the  not  unuseful  search 

Of  plants  to  be  inspected  in  each  part. 

With  nicety  botanic  ;  nor  e'en  passed 

Unheeded  any  delicate  shapely  brake. 

Or  tuft  of  moss,  upon  bleak  mountain  rocks, 

Like  frostwork,  fine,  and  white,  and  crumbling  quick 

Beneath  the  foot ;  on  the  low  shady  bank, 

Like  velvet,  green  and  soft,  or  like  a  grove 

Of  pines  inch-high,  with  noiseless  pliancy 

All  bending  prostrate  at  the  lightest  tread, 

Or  gentlest  pressure  of  the  stroking  hand. 

Then  with  elastic  liveliness  again 

Rising  unhurt.     Not  less  in  these  minute. 

Than  in  the  vast  of  the  Creator's  works. 

They  loved  to  trace  his  hand,  in  every  touch 

Inimitably  fair.     The  house  of  want. 

Of  ignorance,  of  mourning,  of  disease. 

Together  oft  they  humbly  cheered  with  alms, 

Instruction,  sympathy,  attendance  kind. 

Each  weekly  and  each  daily  season,  made 

Sacred  to  acts  of  worship,  with  delight 

Duly  observing,  oft,  at  other  limes. 

They  knelt  together  in  devotion  sweet. 

As  aught  of  signal  interest  called  for  thanks. 


133 


J  "^4  THE    AGE    OF 

Or  supplications  of  appropriate  warmth  ; 

And  oft,  at  other  times,  together  sung, 

Not  unassisted  by  the  solemn  chord, 

Anthems  of  praise.     Thus  happily  they  lived. 

Till,  in  their  arms,  a  second  pleasant  babe 

With  a  faint  smile  intelligent  began 

To  answer  theirs,  and  with  a  brighter  that 

Of  its  fond  sister,  standing  by  their  side, 

With  frequent  kisses  prattling  in  its  face ; 

While  in  its  features,  with  parental  joy, 

And  love  connubial,  they  began  to  mark 

Theirs  intermingled ; — when,  with  sudden  stroke. 

The  blooming  infant  faded,  and  expired. 

And  soon  its  lonely  sister,  doubly  dear 

Now  in  their  grief,  was  in  like  manner  torn 

From  their  united  grasp.     With  patience  far 

Beyond  her  years,  the  little  sufferer  bore 

Her  sharp  distemper,  while  she  could  behold 

Both  parents  by  her  side  ;  but,  when  from  sleep 

Transient  and  troubled  waking,  wept  aloud, 

As  terrified,  if  either  were  not  there. 

To  hear  their  voices  singing  of  the  love 

Of  her  Redeemer,  in  her  favourite  hymn, 

And  praying  for  his  mercy,  oft  she  asked 

With  eagerness,  and  seemed  the  while  at  ease. 

When  came  the  final  struggle,  with  the  look 

Of  a  grieved  child,  and  with  its  mournful  cry. 

But  still  with  something  of  her  wonted  tone 

Of  confidence  in  danger,  as  for  help. 

She  called  on  them,  on  both  alternately, 

As  if  by  turns  expecting  that  relief 

From  each  the  other  had  grown  slow  to  yield  ; 

At  which  their  calmness,  undisturbed  till  then, 

Gave  way  to  agitation  past  control. 

A  few  heart-rending  moments,  and  her  voice 

Sunk  to  a  weak  and  inarticulate  moan. 

Then  in  a  whisper  ended  ;  and  with  that 

Her  features  grew  composed  and  fixed  in  death  ; 

At  sight  of  which  their  lost  tranquillity 


BENEVOLENCE.  135 

At  once  returned.     'Twas  evening  ;  and  the  lamp, 

Set  near,  shone  full  upon  her  placid  face. 

Its  snowy  .white  illuming,  while  they  stood 

Gazing  as  on  her  loveliness  in  sleep, 

The  enfeebled  mother  on  the  father's  arm 

Heavily  hanging,  like  the  slender  flower 

On  its  firm  prop,  when  loaded  down  with  rain 

Or  morning  dew  ;  and  laying  her  pale  cheek 

Upon  his  shoulder,  with  the  simple  air 

Of  infant  weakness  and  dependence  sweet. 

Their  lifeless  child  they  tenderly  bemoaned, 

Yet  opened  their  sad  hearts,  and  not  in  vain, 

To  holy  consolation  from  on  high. 

With  unrepining  sorrow,  they  beheld 

That  little  cherished  frame  of  beauteous  clay 

Apparelled  for  the  grave,  and  covered  deep 

In  its  cold  bosom.     When,  day  after  day. 

No  cheering  sound  of  playful  childhood  broke 

The  stillness  of  their  dwelling,  and  they  felt 

The  new  uneasiness  of  empty  arms, 

They  sometimes  wept  together,  but  in  tears 

Showed  a  submissive  look,  almost  a  smile. 

Now  came  the  last  and  sorest  in  the  train 

Of  their  afflictions,  the  dissolving  blow 

To  nature's  first  and  most  endearing  ties. 

By  her  loved  little  ones,  ere  yet  the  turf 

Upon  their  graves  its  unsoiled  green  regained, 

Charlotte,  the  amiable  wife  was  laid  ; 

And  thus  the  partner  of  her  bosom  left, 

To  mourn  in  solitude  the  loss  of  all. 

By  her  bed  side,  with  unremitted  care, 

In  all  her  painful  sickness,  day  and  night, 

He  watched,  anticipating  every  want, 

And  sharing  every  pang.     From  a  full  heart, 

Now  audibly,  now  silently  he  poured 

Incessant  supplications  for  her  life. 

Or  happiness  in  death  ;  and  when  the  hope 

Of  her  recovery  failed,  with  gratitude 

He  saw  unshaken  to  the  last,  her  trust 


I3C 


THE    AGE  OF 

In  His  compassion,  whom  in  health  she  served 

With  willing  mind.     Her  end  was  full  of  peace, 

Fitting  her  uniform  piety  serene. 

'Twas  rather  the  deep  humble  calm  of  faith. 

Than  her  high  triumph  ;  and  resembled  more 

The  unnoticed  setting  of  a  clear  day's  sun, 

Than  his  admired  departure  in  a  blaze 

Of  glory  bursting  from  a  clouded  course. 

When  from  her  burial  to  his  home  returned 

The  broken-hearted  Orville,  and  beheld 

Around  all  still,  all  desolate  within, 

A  feeling  of  his  utter  loneliness 

Rushed  on  his  soul  with  overwhelming  power. 

Entering  his  door  ungreeted  and  unmet, 

Missing  her  face  that  always  brightened  quick 

At  his  approach,  her  voice  that  sweeter  grew, 

On  the  first  seat  presented,  down  at  once. 

As  if  all  strength  were  in  a  moment  gone. 

He  sunk,  dissolving  in  a  flood  of  tears  ; 

Then,  rising  suddenly,  walked  to  and  fro. 

And  in  impassioned  accents  mourned  aloud. 

When  at  his  table,  in  her  wonted  seat 

He  first  beheld  another  ;  when  he  saw 

The  last  unfinished  labours  of  her  hand  ; — 

Her  needle,  pen,  and  pencil,  at  his  wish, 

Untouched  remaining,  just  as  left  by  her ; — 

And  when  he  cast  an  eye  upon  her  plants 

Perrenial,  and  her  aromatic  shrubs. 

In  their  neat  vases,  left  unwatered  long. 

Dropping  untimely  leaves  and  blighted  buds  ; 

His  rising  grief  no  effort  could  suppress. 

If  in  his  house,  through  its  disordered  rooms, 

He  wandered,  or  through  alleys  weedy  grown 

In  his  neglected  garden,  or  along 

The  sylvan  walks  of  her  accustomed  choice, 

At  every  step,  some  object  called  to  mind 

Her  worth,  or  her  affection,  and  thus  kept 

Opening  afresh  the  wound  within  his  breast. 

Yet  though  severely  pained,  he  ne'er  refused, 


BENEVOLENCE. 

In  sullen  or  in  passionate  despair, 
The  sympathy  of  friendship ;  ne'er  returned 
With  coldness  the  warm  pressure  of  the  hand, 
Nor  heard  unmoved  from  undissembling  lips 
Gentle  condolence.     E'en  the  pity  shown 
By  giddy  youth,  in  checking  their  loud  mirth 
While  passing  his  lone  dwelling,  with  an  eye 
Turned  toward  it  oft,  attracted  by  the  sight 
Of  doors  all  closed  and  window  curtains  down, 
Touched  him  with  grateful  joy,  while  it  awaked 
A  sigh  at  the  remembrance  of  his  loss. 
But  other  consolation,  far  above 
Whate'er  this  world  of  vanity  can  yield, 
He  needed,  with  etherial  fervour  sought, 
And  in  abundance  found.     So  full  his  trust, 
So  high  his  joy,  in  Him,  whose  government 
Is  always  equitable,  always  good, 
And  to  the  penitent  of  human  kind 
In  all  things  merciful,  that  they  who  looked, 
At  first,  to  see  his  tender  nature  sink. 
Ere  long  with  admiration  saw  it  changed 
To  exalted  firmness  ; — not,  indeed,  his  own  ; 
Not  the  quick  growth  of  philosophic  pride, 
But  of  the  infused  virtue  of  that  grace 
From  heaven  descending.     In  his  grief,  he  seemed 
Like  the  young  tree,  bowed  low,  as  from  its  top 
Some  strong  hand  tears  away  the  clinging  vine. 
Breaks  by  degrees  the  innumerable  ties 
Of  branches  and  soft  tendrils  intertwined, 
But,  when  quite  parted,  rising,  and,  despoiled 
Of  all  its  own  with  all  its  borrowed  bloom, 
Standing,  in  naked  loneliness,  sublime. 
Thus  stript,  a  solitary  being,  left 
To  feel  united  to  the  earth  no  more 
By  any  outward  bond,  he  looked  on  all 
That  he  possessed,  once  valued  for  the  sake 
Of  others  dearer  than  himself,  as  now 
No  longer  his,  to  be  enjoyed  alone  ; 
And  with  a  richer  treasure  in  his  view, 
18 


137 


138 


THE    AGE    OF 

Restored  it  to  the  Giver,  to  augment 

The  knowledge  of  his  will,  and  of  his  grace 

The  victories,  among  immortal  men. 

Not  in  a  fit  of  discontented  gloom, 

But  with  the  sober  constancy  of  faith. 

He  viewed  himself  thenceforth  a  stranger  here, 

And  looked  on  all  the  world,  in  all  its  charms, 

As  nought  to  him,  intent  upon  his  home. 

And  on  whatever  intervening  means 

Might  best  and  soonest  fit  him  for  its  joys. 

By  learning  and  meek  piety  prepared 

To  be  the  messenger  of  truth  and  grace. 

Now  doubly  by  affliction,  and  desire 

Benevolent  kindled  to  a  quenchless  flame. 

And  inly  prompted  by  the  Spirit  divine 

Inhabiting  his  bosom,  forth  he  went 

From  all  the  abodes  of  elegance  and  ease, 

To  publish  in  tVie  wilderness,  to  men 

In  mind  and  manners  rude,  dwelling  in  huts 

Uncouth  and  comfortless,  the  welcome  words 

Of  heavenly  mercy,  through  the  ransom  high 

On  Calvary  paid.     From  hardships,  that  would  once 

Have  crushed  him,  gathering  vigour  in  his  course, 

Onward  till  death,  in  this  angelic  work. 

He  pressed,  with  growing  ardour  and  delight. 

When  in  the  great  assembly  of  the  just. 

Walking  in  white, — his  happy  wife  and  babes. 

Beautiful  cherubs,  smiling  at  his  side, — 

He  meets  with  those  by  his  exertion  saved. 

Beholds  their  glory,  hears  their  rapturous  songs, 

And,  forward  looking  with  an  angel's  ken 

Along  the  vista  of  unlimited  years, 

Contemplates  their  uninterrupted  march 

In  excellence  and  bliss,  and  in  them  views 

Immortal  trophies  of  the  Prince  of  Life, 

Forever  yielding  honour  to  the  love 

Omnipotent  of  this  his  dearest  friend, 

'How  will  the  day  of  his  bereavement  here, 

Like  morning,  break  from  its  terrestial  gloom, 


BENEVOLENCE.  139 

And  shine  of  all  his  days  most  luminous 
In  heaven's  reflected  and  concentred  light ! 
And  how  will  his  unchanging  confidence 
In  God's  mysterious  goodness,  with  its  fruits 
Of  rich  and  lasting  growth,  the  height  sublime 
Of  wisdom  prove,  and  virtue,  to  the  joy 
Triumphant  of  his  never-ending  life  ! 

If  such  the  future  good,  the  giory  bright. 
The  bliss  ineffable,  of  them  that  bear, 
With  holy  fortitude  of  heart,  the  ills 
Of  vile  mortality,  and  rise  beneath 
The  accumulated  weight  to  higher  deeds, 
Then  let  the  deepest  in  affliction  lift 
The  drooping  head,  beneath  the  heaviest  load, 
And,  fired  with  hope,  run  with  unfaltering  step 
Their  sublunary  course.     The  woes  of  earth 
'  May  thicken,  and  severer  grow,  till  death  ; 
But  that  last  pang,  like  the  last  paroxysm 
Of  some  long  painful  dream,  waking  the  soul 
To  life  and  transport,  makes  amends  at  once 
For  all  past  sufferings,  in  a  moment  all 
Forgotten  in  that  plenitude  of  joy. 
And  if  so  glorious  be  the  end  of  faith, 
In  that  good  providence,  minutely  employed 
On  its  possessor ;  faith  in  God's  kind  care 
Of  his  great  kingdom  of  victorious  grace, 
With  what  transcendent  glory  will  it  reach 
Its  consummation  !     Of  this  last  reward 
E'en  now  the  frequent  prelibation  cheers 
The  saddened  spirit,  when  events  within 
This  rising  kingdom,  seeming  for  a  while 
Disastrous,  turn  to  unexpected  good, 
In  greatness  and  extent  surpassing  far 
The  threatened  ill.     The  good  man,  eminent 
In  station  and  endowments,  one  to  whom 
The  virtuous  of  whole  nations  look  with  joy 
And  expectation  high,  dies  in  the  prime 
Of  active  excellence  ;  but  soon,  to  calm 
The  general  grief,  and  all  distrust  reprove. 


140 


THE    AGE    OF 

From  his  removal  are  divinely  wrought, 
And  visibly  to  all,  effects  above 
The  highest  ever  hoped  from  life  prolonged. 
Few  are  the  days,  in  which  the  friends  of  man, 
With  looks  of  fearful  sorrow,  when  they  meet, 
Untimely  and  calamitous  pronounce 
His  early  death.     On  all  the  darkness  thick. 
Involving  it  at  first,  light  shines  anon, 
With  added  glory  ;  as  when  radiance  bright. 
After  the  sun's  departure  in  deep  gloom. 
Suddenly  shines  on  all  the  clouds  of  heaven. 
And  adds  a  splendour  richer  than  of  day. 
In  grand  pre-eminence  o'er  every  truth 
Rises  the  goodness,  pure  and  measureless. 
Of  that  eternal  Being,  in  whose  hands 
Are  all  things,  at  his  sole  disposal  held, 
And  with  a  grasp  that  nothing  can  resist. 
No  matter  what  is  truth,  if  this  be  not ; 
All  is  forever  lost  ;  despair  like  death 
Reigns,  and  a  horror  of  great  darkness  spreads, 
O'er  a  lost  universe.     If  this  be  truth. 
No  matter  what  is  not;  all,  all  is  safe  ; 
The  living  light  of  hope  creation  cheers. 
This  is  enough  for  creatures  of  the  dust 
To  know  of  their  great  Maker  ;  of  his  will 
And  providence,  in  all  their  mysteries. 
Let  this  suffice  the  wavering  to  confirm, 
To  hush  the  murmuring,  and  the  sinking  raise  ; 
To  drive  from  every  breast  rebellious  thoughts 
And  sorrowful,  and  win  the  love  supreme 
Of  every  heart,  the  confidence  entire ; 
And  into  each  infuse  divine  delight, 
Unmingled  and  unfailing  as  its  source. 
Sublimer  consolation  heaven  has  none 
To  give  to  mortals,  no  sublimer  joy 
For  angels,  than  from  the  assurance  flows, 
That  all  is  goodness  in  the  government. 
And  in  the  character,  of  Him  who  reigns 
Head  over  all  things  ;  that  his  holiness 


BENEVOLENCE. 

Ts  but  benevolence  kindled  to  a  flame, 
Refining  and  consuming  for  like  end, 
His  wisdom  but  the  knowledge  and  the  will 
To  make  the  height  of  happiness  secure, 
His  justice  a  wall  of  fire  about  his  throne 
To  guard  it  from  defilement  ruinous. 
His  truth  the  immutability  of  grace. 
And  his  omnipotence  the  might  of  love. 

Great  is  thy  goodness,  Father  of  all  life, 
Fount  of  all  joy.     Thou  high  and  holy  One, 
Whom  not  thy  glorious  sanctuary,  heaven. 
Can  e'er  contain  ;  Spirit  invisible. 
Whose  omnipresence  makes  creation  smile, 
Great  is  thy  goodness,  worthy  of  all  praise 
From  all  thy  works.     Then  let  earth,  air,  and  sea ; 
Nature,  with  every  season  in  its  turn  ; 
The  firmament,  with  its  revolving  fires  ; 
And  all  things  living  ;  join  to  give  thee  praise. 
Thou  glorious  sun,  like  thy  Original, 
A  vital  influence  to  surrounding  worlds 
Forever  sending  forth,  yet  always  full  ; 
And  thou  fair  queen  of  night,  o'er  the  pure  sky, 
Amid  thy  glittering  company  of  stars. 
Walking  in  brightness,  praise  the  God  above. 
Ocean,  forever  rolling  to  and  fro 
In  thy  vast  bed,  o'er  half  the  hollowed  earth  ; 
Grand  theatre  of  wonders  to  all  lands. 
And  reservoir  of  blessings,  sound  his  praise. 
Break  forth  into  a  shout  of  grateful  joy. 
Ye  mountains,  covered  with  perennial  green, 
And  pouring  crystal  torrents  down  your  sides ; 
Ye  lofty  forests,  and  ye  humble  groves  ; 
Ye  hills,  and  plains,  and  valleys,  overspread 
With  flocks  and  harvests.     All  ye  feathered  tribes, 
That,  taught  by  your  Creator,  a  safe  retreat 
Find  in  the  dead  of  winter,  or  enjoy 
Sweet  summer  all  your  days  by  changing  clime. 
Warble  to  him  all  your  melodious  notes  ; 
To  him,  who  clothes  you  with  your  gay  attire, 
And  kindles  in  your  fluttering  breasts  the  glow 


141 


142  THE    AGE    OF 

Of  love  parental.     Beasts,  thai  graze  the  fields, 
Or  roam  the  woods,  give  honour  to  the  Power, 
That  makes  you  swift  to  flee,  or  strong  to  meet, 
The  coming  foe  ;  and  rouses  you  to  flight 
In  harmless  mirth,  or  sooths  to  pleasant  rest. 
Shout  to  Jehovah  with  the  voice  of  praise. 
Ye  nations,  all  ye  continents  and  isles. 
People  of  every  tongue  ;  ye  that  within 
The  verdant  shade  of  palm  and  plantain  sit. 
Feasting  on  their  cool  fruit,  on  torrid  plains  ; 
And  ye  that  in  the  midst  of  pine-clad  hills, 
In  snowy  regions,  grateful  vigour  inhale 
From  every  breeze.     Ye,  that  inhabit  lands, 
Where  science,  liberty,  and  plenty  dwell, 
Worship  Jehovah  in  exalted  strains. 
But  ye,  to  whom  redeeming  mercy  comes. 
With  present  peace,  and  promises  sublime 
Of  future  crowns,  and  mansions  in  the  skies, 
Imperishable,  raise  the  loudest  song. 
O,  sing  forever,  with  seraphic  voice. 
To  Him,  whose  immortality  is  yours, 
In  the  blest  union  of  eternal  love  ! 
And  join  them,  all  ye  winged  hosts  of  heaven. 
That  in  your  Maker's  glory  take  delight ; 
And  ye,  too,  all  ye  bright  inhabitants 
Of  starry  worlds  ;  and  let  the  universe, 
Above,  below,  around,  be  filled  with  praise. 

Though  held  thus  long  in  contemplation  sweet 
On  heaven's  high  King,  I  may  not  leave  his  court 
Till  I  have  marked  the  godlike  myriads 
Of  bright  intelligences,  that  attend 
In  state  celestial,  ranged  in  order  round 
His  throne  adoring  ;  at  his  bidding  fly, 
Swiftly  and  silently  as  beams  of  light. 
From  world  to  world,  to  execute  his  will ; 
From  their  creation  this  their  blest  employ. 
And  theirs  for  an  eternity  to  come. 
Not  from  the  need  of  their  almighty  Lord, 
To  propagate  the  impulse  of  his  hand 
Beyond  its  reach,  serve  they  throughout  his  realm. 


BENEVOLENCE, 

Nor  is  his  service  deemed  a  menial  task  ; 

'Tis  their  high  privilege,  their  whole  delight. 

Were  they  disbanded,  and  employed  no  more, 

Their  hearts  would  pine  as  o'er  departed  bliss, 

Their  station  forfeited,  their  glory  lost. 

On  errand  sent  of  love  or  righteous  wrath. 

They  oft  appeared  on  earth,  from  that  sad  hour 

When  cherubs  stood  to  guard,  with  sword  of  flame. 

Fair  paradise  and  its  live-giving  tree 

From  all  access  of  banished  ruined  man, 

To  that  most  memorable  day,  when  heaven 

Sent  down  the  flower  of  her  exulting  hosts. 

To  celebrate  his  birth  in  Bethlehem  born. 

Him  they  acknowledged  as  their  Sovereign  still, 

Though  clad  in  flesh,  and  to  his  human  wants 

Administered  while  in  the  lonely  wild, 

Strengthened  his  mortal  frame  when  in  the  shades 

Of  sad  Gethsemane  it  almost  sunk, 

Borne  down  by  that  insufferable  load 

Of  a  world's  guilt ;  and  legions,  hovering  near, 

Gazing  with  trembling  wonder,  waited  leave 

To  screen  from  danger  his  devoted  head, 

And  pour  contempt  and  ruin  on  his  foes. 

In  shining  garments  mighty  angels  came, 

To  ope  the  tomb,  and  hail  their  rising  Lord  ; 

And  came  again — let  gently  down  to  earth 

The  golden  cloud  that  bore  him  up  the  sky, 

And  them  who  gazed  of  his  last  coming  warned. 

That  coming  all  his  angels  shall  attend, 

The  trump  to  sound,  and  gather  his  elect 

From  the  four  winds,  ere  his  avenging  wrath 

Come  on  the  world,  and  bury  it  in  flames. 

Meanwhile  they  minister  to  saints  below, 

The  tempted  to  deliver,  and  to  guide 

The  wandering ;  hope  to  whisper  to  the  sad, 

And  to  the  dying  peace.     Round  the  death  bed 

They  take  their  stand,  with  wings  invisible 

And  noiseless  fan  upon  the  burning  brow 

The  cooling  air,  and  light  the  lifted  eye 

With  glimpses  of  celestial  glory  bright. 


143 


144 


THE    AGE    OF 

They  wait,  with  arms  extended,  to  receive 
The  liberated  spirit,  and  up  to  climes 
Of  immortality,  their  happy  home, 
Bear  it  with  the  rapidity  of  thought. 
Benevolence  reigns  a  passion  in  their  breasts. 
While  in  the  presence  of  their  King  they  stand, 
Begirt  to  fly  the  moment  when  he  bids. 
It  spreads  their  pinions,  quickens,  and  supports, 
And  guides  them  far  and  wide,  on  every  wind, 
Downward,  and  upward,  and  along  the  earth 
From  land  to  land,  wherever  virtue  dwells. 
Listening  delighted,  in  assemblies,  met 
To  join  entreaties  for  the  coming  quick 
Of  the  great  kingdom  of  redeeming  love. 
They  mingle  ;  and  in  those  of  every  name, 
Combined  its  promised  welfare  to  promote. 
They  cheer  with  glad  attendance  them  that  go, 
Life  to  the  dying  nations  to  proclaim  ; 
And  with  the  tidings  of  each  penitent 
Hasten  to  heaven,  to  give  new  rapture  there. 
And  if  o'er  one  regenerated  soul 
They  all  rejoice,  what  shouts  of  joy,  increased 
A  thousand  fold,  shall  burst  from  glowing  lips, 
Ring  round  and  round  the  everlasting  hills, 
From  choir  to  choir  repeated  long  and  loud. 
And  swell  the  whole  grand  chorus  of  the  skies. 
When  in  one  day  a  nation  shall  be  born  ! 
A  Gabriel's  now  is  every  humbler  harp. 
And  his  attuned  to  notes  unheard  before. 
If  angels  bear  a  beggar  to  the  skies, 
If  they  have  borne  home  solitary  saints. 
Amidst  unholy  millions  well  nigh  lost, 
How  will  the  air  and  heavens  be  all  alive. 
With  motion  swifter  than  the  lightning  flash, 
From  their  ascending  and  descending  bands. 
Meeting,  and  intermingling,  night  and  day. 
When  from  each  shore,  and  island  of  the  sea. 
And  mount,  and  vale,  around  the  populous  globe, 
Spirits  regenerate  shall  depart  each  hour. 
In  all  a  countless  throng !  From  heaven  to  earth 


BENEVOLENCE.  145 

Pass  and  repass  bright  angels,  in  a  train 

So  constant,  and  so  thick,  they  lighten  up 

Another  galaxy  along  the  sky, 

A  radiant  pathway  o'er  the  starry  realm 

To  realms  of  bliss.     Behold  the  saints  ascend, 

No  longer  one  by  one,  and  far  apart ; 

They  go  in  companies,  they  fly  like  clouds 

Of  sunny  whiteness,  on  a  vernal  day. 

Hurrying  in  thick  succession  o'er  the  heavens  ; 

In  one  continual  multitude  they  rise. 

Oft  hovering  for  a  moment,  on  their  way. 

To  clap  their  pinions  with  triumphant  joy. 

Angels  attend  them  ;  angels,  too,  on  watch, 

Look  from  the  garnished  battlements  of  heaven. 

Their  coming  to  proclaim,  soon  as  beheld, 

Far  down,  a  living  constellation,  fast 

Ascending,  widening,  brightening,  shedding  light 

On  the  dim  orbs  that  roll  around  its  path. 

Their  city's  twelve  transparent  gates  of  pearl, 

Till  this  glad  day  all  barred  save  one  alone. 

Angels  with  joyful  haste  throw  open  wide. 

To  let  whole  armies  in  ;  and  angels  pour 

From  each,  to  greet  them,  with  endearing  words, 

And  smiles  benignant ;  and  through  dazzling  ranks, 

Into  the  centre  of  their  blest  abode. 

Before  that  face  whose  glory  is  their  sun, 

Conduct  them,  all,  with  tuneful  voices  loud, 

And  the  sweet  symphony  of  golden  harps, 

Uniting  in  hosannas  to  the  Lamb. 

While  thus  with  all  the  native  sons  of  heaven. 
In  their  adoring  acclamations,  join 
Those  ransomed  from  the  earth,  they  feel  the  fire 
Of  their  benevolence,  in  its  purity. 
Burning  within,  enkindling  joy  like  theirs. 
And  prompting  to  like  action.     Yes,  the  love 
Of  giving  and  beholding  happiness. 
First  wakened  in  their  hearts  amid  the  sins. 
The  griefs,  and  frailties,  of  mortality. 
When  these  remain  no  more  to  chill  its  zeal, 
19 


146  THE    AGE    OF    BENEVOLENCE. 

Shall  live,  the  bosom's  sole  inhabitant ; 

There  reign,  and  to  angelic  fervour  rise. 

Love  is  the  only  amaranthine  flower, 

In  this  inclement  world,  this  land  of  death. 

While  faith  and  hope,  are  blasted  in  the  grave, 

The  wintry  grave,  with  other  flowers  of  time, 

Thou,  sacred  charity,  shalt  still  survive, 

And  in  a  soil  and  clime,  where  all  is  life, 

Shalt  grow,  and  flourish,  in  eternal  spring. 

And  with  unwasting  sweetness  fill  the  groves 

And  vales  of  paradise.     There  all  is  love. 

In  every  happy  breast,  through  every  rank. 

E'en  to  the  humblest ;  love  without  a  taint 

Of  hidden  selfishness,  without  a  drop 

Of  bitterness,  from  fear,  or  hope  deferred. 

None  pine  with  jealousy,  at  sight  of  bliss 

Their  own  transcending.     To  behold  a  crown 

Of  fairer  light  than  theirs,  or  hear  a  harp 

More  tuneful,  wakens  discontent  in  none. 

But  livelier  joy.     The  happiness  of  each 

Is  ever  that  of  all.     Love  makes  the  heaven 

Of  every  bosom  ;  gives  to  every  face 

Its  winning  beauty,  to  the  cheek  its  bloom 

Unfading,  to  the  lips  their  living  glow. 

Its  pure  etherial  lustre  to  the  eye, 

And  to  the  whole  its  everlasting  smile. 

On  all  the  multitudes,  spread  o'er  the  plains 

Of  immortality,  from  his  high  throne 

The  God  of  love,  through  the  transparent  cloud 

Of  glory  round  him,  cast^  a  fixed  look 

Of  calm  complacence,  in  their  union  sweet 

Rejoicing,  in  their  charity  sublime, 

In  their  consummate  likeness  to  himself 


END    OF    BOOK   I. 


THE 

AGE  OF  BENEVOLENCE. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  BOOK  II. 


Descending  to  this  sublunary  orb, 
From  the  third  heaven  th'  empyreal  realm  of  love, 
Its  native  element,  (sublimely  pure. 
And  all  pervading)  how  am  I  thrown, 
As  from  the  glowing  centre  of  the  sun, 
Down  to  earth's  frozen  and  benighted  pole. 

Will  no  kind  visitant  from  heaven,  reveal 
By  what  unerring  sign  apostate  man 
May  know  himself  preparing  to  regain 
Lost  paradise,  its  innocence  and  bliss  ? 
Tis  nothing  less  than  that  same  image  lost. 
Effaced  by  sin,  newstamp'd  upon  the  soul. 
What  else,  but  God's  own  likeness,  could  prepare 
Angel  or  man,  his  presence  to  enjoy  ? 
What,  but  the  temper  of  the  heavenly  world 
Could  fit  a  being  to  be  happy  there  ? 
This  temper  and  that  likeness  meet  in  love. 
Love  is  the  watch-word  at  the  gate  of  heav'n. 
Religion  comes  to  mortals  richly  fraught 
With  this  celestial  grace,  and  scatters  round 
Its  heav'n-born  fragrance  in  this  distant  soil, 
As  spices,  when  exposed  in  foreign  climes, 
Breathe  out  the  native  odours  of  their  own. 


148 


THE    AGE  OF 

Time  well  employ'd  is  Satan's  deadliest  foe  : 
It  leaves  no  opening  for  the  lurking  fiend  : 
Life  it  imparts  to  watchfulness  and  prayer, 
Statues,  without  it  in  tlie  form  of  guards. 

The  closet  which  the  saint  devotes  to  prayer, 
Is  not  his  temple  only,  but  his  tower. 
Whither  he  runs  for  refuge,  when  attack'd, 
His  armory,  to  which  he  soon  retreats 
When  danger  warns,  his  weapons  to  select, 
And  fit  them  on.     He  dares  not  stop  to  plead 
When  taken  by  surprise  and  half  o'ercome. 
That  now  to  venture  near  the  hallow'd  place 
Were  but  profane  ;  a  plea  that  marks  a  soul 
Glad  to  impose  on  conscience  with  a  show 
Of  humble  veneration,  to  secure 
Present  indulgence,  which,  when  once  enjoy'd, 
It  means  to  mourn  with  floods  of  bitter  tears. 

The  tempter  quits  his  vain  pursuit  and  flies. 
When  by  the  mounting  suppliant  drawn  too  near 
The  upper  world  of  purity  and  light. 
He  loses  sight  of  his  intended  prey. 
In  that  effulgence  beaming  from  the  throne 
Radiant  with  mercy.     But  devotion  fails 
To  succour  and  preserve  the  tempted  soul, 
Whose  time  and  talents  rest  or  run  to  waste. 
Ne'er  will  the  incense  of  the  morn  diffuse 
A  salutary  savour  through  the  day. 
With  charities  and  duties  not  well  filled. 
These  form  the  links  of  an  electric  chain 
That  join  the  orisons  of  morn  and  eve, 
And  propagate  through  all  its  several  parts. 
While  kept  continuous,  the  etherial  fire  ; 
But  if  a  break  be  found  the  fire  is  spent. 


Too  long  I've  wandered,  though  by  truth  led  on 
But  still  the  strong  enchantment  which  unmana 


BENEVOLENCE.  149 

The  pensive  lovers  of  the  calm  sublime, 
And  which,  unbroke,  upon  the  lap  of  ease 
Lays  them  to  sleep,  wrapt  up  in  selfish  gloom 
Unmindful  of  the  claims  of  social  life, 
Demands  regard,  ere  yet  I  quite  return. 

How  rich  in  scenes  that  nurse  in  pensive  souls 
A  tenderness  voluptuously  soft. 
Till  grown  to  indolent  and  morbid  gloom. 
Fatal  to  active  usefulness,  to  peace  with  heaven. 
Is  nature's  varied  field.     A  mind  in  love 
With  mournful  musing,  never  turns  in  vain 
To  nature  for  some  dear  congenial  scene  ; 
But  scenes  there  are,  so  fraught  with  soothing  power. 
They  woo  the  pensive  mind  when  unemployed. 

A  sultry  noon,  not  in  the  summer's  prime 
When  all  is  fresh  with  life,  and  youth,  and  bloom. 
But  near  its  close  when  vegetation  stops, 
And  fruits  mature,  stand  ripening  in  the  sun. 
Sooths  and  enervates  with  its  thousand  charms, 
Its  images  of  silence  and  of  rest. 
The  melancholy  mind.     The  fields  are  still ; 
The  husbandman  has  gone  to  his  repast, 
And,  that  partaken,  on  the  coolest  side 
Of  his  abode,  reclines,  in  sweet  repose. 
Deep  in  the  shaded  stream  the  cattle  stand, 
The  flocks  beside  the  fence,  with  heads  all  prone 
And  panting  quick.     The  fields  for  harvest  ripe, 
No  breezes  bend  in  smooth  and  graceful  waves, 
While  with  their  motion,  dim  and  bright  by  turns, 
The  sun-shine  seems  to  move  ;  nor  e'en  a  breath 
Brushes  along  the  surface  with  a  shade. 
Fleeting  and  thin,  like  that  of  flying  smoke. 
The  slender  stalks,  their  heavy  bended  heads 
Support  as  motionless,  as  oaks  their  tops. 
O'er  all  the  woods  the  top-most  leaves  are  still. 
E'en  the  wild  poplar  leaves,  that,  pendant  hung 
By  stems  elastic,  quiver  at  a  breath. 
Rest  in  the  general  calm.     The  thistle  down 


1'><J  THE    AGE  OF 

Seen  high  and  thick,  by  gazing  up  beside 
Some  shading  object,  in  a  silver  shower 
Plumb  down,  and  slower  than   the  slowest  snow, 
Through  all  the  sleepy  atmosphere  descends ; 
And  where  it  lights,  though  on  the  steepest  roof, 
Or  smallest  spire  of  grass,  remains  unmoved. 
White  as  a  fleece,  as  dense  and  as  distinct 
From  the  resplendent  sky,  a  single  cloud 
On  the  soft  bosom  of  the  air  becalmed. 
Drops  a  lone  shadow  as  distinct  and  still, 
On  the  bare  plain,  or  sunny  mountain's  side  ; 
Or  in  the  polished  mirror  of  the  lake, 
In  which  the  deep  reflected  sky  appears 
A  calm  sublime  immensity  below. 

******     Beneath  a  sun 

That  crowns  the  centre  of  the  azure  cope, 

A  blaze  of  light  intense  o'erspreads  the  whole 

Of  nature's  face  ;  and  he  that  overlooks. 

From  some  proud  eminence,  the  champaign  round, 

Notes  all  the  buildings,  scattered  far  and  near, 

Both  great  and  small,  magnificent  and  mean, 

By  their  smooth  roofs  of  shining  silver  white, 

Spangling  with  brighter  spots  the  bright  expanse. 

No  sound,  nor  motion,  of  a  living  thing 

The  stillness  breaks,  but  such  as  serve  to  soothe 

Or  cause  the  soul  to  feel  the  stillness  more. 

The  yellow-hammer  by  the  way-side  picks, 

Mutely,  the  thistle's  seed  ;  but  in  her  flight, 

So  smoothly  serpentine,  her  wings  outspread 

To  rise  a  little,  closed  to  fall  as  far. 

Moving  like  sea-fowl  o'er  the  heaving  waves. 

With  each  new  impulse  chimes  a  feeble  note. 

The  russet  grasshopper,  at  times,  is  heard, 

Snapping  his  many  wings,  as  half  he  flies. 

Half  hovers  in  the  air.     Where  strikes  the  sun 

With  sultriest  beams,  upon  the  sandy  plain, 

Or  stony  mount,  or  in  the  close  deep  vale, 


BENEVOLENCE.  151 

The  harmless  locust  of  this  western  clime, 
At  intervals,  amid  the  leaves  unseen. 
Is  heard  to  sing  with  one  unbroken  sound, 
As  with  a  long-drawn  breath,  beginning  Low, 
And  rising  to  the  midst  with  shriller  swell. 
Then  in  low  cadence  dying  all  away. 
Beside  the  stream  collected  in  a  flock, 
The  noiseless  butterflies,  though  on  the  ground. 
Continue  still  to  wave  their  open  fans 
Powder'd  with  gold  ;  while  on  the  jutting  twigs 
The  spindling  insects  that  frequent  the  banks, 
Rest,  with  their  thin  transparent  wings  outspread 
As  when  they  fly.     Oft  times,  though  seldom  seen. 
The  cuckoo,  that  in  summer  haunts  our  groves, 
Is  heard  to  moan,  as  if  at  every  breath 
Panting  aloud.     The  hawk  in  mid-air  high, 
On  his  broad  pinions  sailing  round  and  round. 
With  not  a  flutter,  or  but  now  and  then, 
As  if  his  trembling  balance  to  regain. 
Utters  a  single  scream  but  faintly  heard, 
And  all  again  is  still.     The  cooling  shade 
The  listless  rambler  seeks,  perhaps  beside 
Sad  willows  planted  round  the  garden  pool. 
Whose  slender  leaves  and  long  untapering  limbs 
Hanging  plumb  down  with  gracefulness, 
Drip  with  a  constant  shower  of  scattered  drops 
Hung  from  the  spouting  column  in  the  midst ; 
Or  in  the  forest  by  the  clear  cold  rill, 
That  falls  in  short  cascades  as  by  thick  steps 
Down  the  long  steep,  mid  slaty  stones  o'ergrown 
With  fresh  green  moss,  beneath  the  umbrage  dark 
Of  pine  and  fir  :  while  oozing  from  the  rocks 
Trickle  cold  springs,  and  on  the  banks,  the  cups 
Of  flowers  unsunned,  day  after  day,  retain 
The  rain  of  heaven.     Here  musing  he  reclines, 
Cooled  by  the  freshness,  by  the  murmurs  lulled, 
And  softly  saddened  by  the  verdant  gloom. 
At  evening  in  the  unfrequented  door, 


152  THE    AGE    OF 

Fronting  the  west,  he  takes  his  wonted  stand;, 

Leaning  against  the  post  with  folded  arms  ; 

Or  at  his  chamber  window,  open  thrown. 

He  seats  himself,  his  forehead  bared  to  meet 

Each  cooling  breeze,  his  elbow  on  the  sill, 

And  his  bare  temple  resting  on  his  palm. 

He  looks  abroad  and  much  he  finds  to  please 

A  soul  depressed  and  sink  it  lower  still. 

The  meadows  are  no  longer  spangled  bright 

As  ere  mid-summer,  with  the  nightly  swarms 

Of  fireflies  thick,  whose  intermittent  sparks 

Direct  the  hands  of  childhood,  following  close 

To  catch  them  as  they  climb  the  blades  of  grass, 

Or  flit  along  the  air.     Now  other  swarms 

Of  various  insects  in  the  grass  unseen, 

Sooth  with  a  dull  monotony  of  sounds  ; 

Some  shriller  than  the  rest  in  minute  strains 

Trilling  alone;  and  some  without  a  stop 

All  night  prolonged  in  feeble  plaintive  tones 

Continuous  as  the  throbbings  of  the  pulse 

And  similar  as  they.     Far  off  and  lowjir 

The  horizon,  from  a  sultry  cloud 

Where  sleeps  in  embryo  the  mid-night  storm, 

The  silent  lightning  gleams  in  fitful  sheets. 

Illumes  the  solid  mass,  revealing  thus 

Its  darker  fragments,  and  its  ragged  verge  ; 

Or  if  the  bolder  fancy  so  conceive 

Of  its  fantastic  forms,  revealing  thus 

Its  gloomy  caverns,  rugged  sides  and  tops 

With  beetling  cliffs  grotesque.     But  not  so  bright 

The  distant  flashes  gleam  as  to  efface 

The  window's  image  on  the  floor  impressed, 

By  the  dim  crescent ;  or  outshines  the  light 

Cast  from  the  room  upon  the  trees  hard  by, 

If  haply  to  illume  a  moonless  night 

The  lighted  taper  shine  ;  though  lit  in  vain 

To  waste  away  unused,  and  from  abroad 

Distinctly  through  the  open  window  seen 


BENEVOLENCE.  153 

Lone,  pale,  and  still  as  a  sepulchral  lamp. 

The  sultry  summer  past,  September  comes, 
Soft  twilight  of  the  slow-declining  year. 
All  mildness,  soothing  loneliness  and  peace  ; 
The  fading  season  ere  the  falling  come. 
More  sober  than  the  buxom  blooming  May, 
And  therefore  less  the  favorite  of  the  world. 
But  dearest  month  of  all  to  pensive  minds. 
Tis  now  far  spent ;  and  the  meridian  sun 
Most  sweetly  smiling  with  attempered  beams 
Sheds  gently  down  a  mild  and  grateful  warmth. 
Beneath  its  yellow  lustre  groves  and  woods 
Checkered  by  one  night's  frost  with  various  hues, 
While  yet  no  wind  has  swept  a  leaf  away. 
Shine  doubly  rich.     It  were  a  sad  delight 
Down  the  smooth  stream  to  glide,  and  see  it  tinged 
Upon  each  brink  with  all  the  gorgeous  hues, 
The  yellow,  red,  or  purple  of  the  trees 
That  singly  or  in  tufts  or  forests  thick 
Adorn  the  shores  ;  to  see  perhaps  the  side 
Of  some  high  mount  reflected  far  below 
With  its  bright  colours,  intermixed  with  spots 
Of  darker  green.     Yes  it  were  sweetly  sad 
To  wander  in  the  open  fields  and  hear 
E'en  at  this  hour,  the  noon-day  hardly  past. 
The  lulling  insects  of  the  summer's  night ; 
To  hear,  where  lately  buzzing  swarms  were  heard, 
A  lonely  bee  long  roving  here  and  there 
To  find  a  single  flower,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
Then  rising  quick  and  with  a  louder  hum. 
In  widening  circles  round  and  round  his  head. 
Straight  by  the  listener  flying  clear  away. 
As  if  to  bid  the  fields  a  last  adieu  ; 
To  hear  within  the  woodland's  sunny  side, 
Late  fall  of  music,  nothing  save  perhaps 
The  sound  of  nut-shells  by  the  squirrel  dropt 
From  some  tall  beech  fast  falling  through  the  leaves. 
20 


154 


THE    AGE    OF 

The  sun  now  rests  upon  the  mountain  tops  ; 
Begins  to  sink  behind — is  half  concealed, 
And  now  is  gone  :  the  last  faint  twinkling  beam 
Is  cut  in  twain  by  the  sharp  rising  ridge. 
Sweet  to  the  pensive  is  departing  day 
When  only  one  small  cloud  so  still  and  thin, 
So  thoroughly  imbued  with  amber  light. 
And  so  transparent,  that  it  seems  a  spot 
Of  brighter  sky,  beyond  the  farthest  mount 
Hangs  o'er  the  hidden  orb;  or  where  a  few 
Long  narrow  stripes  of  denser,  darker  grain. 
At  each  end  sharpened  to  a  needle's  point 
With  golden  borders,  sometimes  straight  and  smooth 
And  sometimes  crinkling  like  the  lightning  stream, 
A  half  hour's  space  above  the  mountain  lie  ; 
Or  when  the  whole  consolidated  mass 
That  only  threatened  rain,  is  broken  up 
Into  a  thousand  parts,  and  yet  is  one. 
One  as  the  ocean  broken  into  waves ; 
And  all  its  spongy  parts,  imbibing  deep 
The  moist  effulgence,  seern  like  fleeces  dyed 
Deep  scarlet,  saffron  light,  or  crimson  dark, 
As  they  are  thick  or  thin,  or  near  or  more  remote, 
All  fading  soon  as  lower  sinks  the  sun, 
Till  twilight  end.     But  now  another  scene 
To  me  most  beautiful  of  all  appears ; 
The  sky  without  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Throughout  the  west,  is  kindled  to  a  glow 
So  bright  and  broad,  it  glares  upon  the  eye, 
Not  dazzling  but  dilating  with  calm  force 
Its  power  of  vision  to  admit  the  whole. 
Below,  'tis  all  of  richest  orange  dye, 
Midway  the  blushing  of  the  mellow  peach 
Paints  not  but  tinges  the  etherial  deep  ; 
And  here  in  this  most  lovely  region  shines 
With  added  loveliness,  the  evening-star. 
Above,  the  fainter  purple  slowly  fades 
Till  changed  into  the  azure  of  mid-heaven. 


BENEVOLENCE. 

Along  the  level  ridge  o'er  which  the  sun 
Descended,  in  a  single  row  arranged 
As  if  thus  planted  by  the  hand  of  art, 
Majestic  pines  shoot  up  into  the  sky, 
And  in  its  fluid  gold  seem  half  dissolved. 
Upon  a  nearer  peak,  a  cluster  stands 
With  shafts  erect  and  tops  converged  to  one 
A  stately  colonade  with  verdant  roof; 
Upon  a  nearer  still,  a  single  tree 
With  shapely  form  looks  beautiful  alone, 
While  farther  northward  through  a  narrow  pass 
Scooped  in  the  hither  range,  a  single  mount 
Beyond  the  rest,  of  finer  smoothness  seems, 
And  of  a  softer  more  etherial  blue, 
A  pyramid  of  polished  sapphire  built. 

But  now  the  twilight  mingles  into  one 
The  various  mountains  ;  levels  to  a  plain 
This  nearer,  lower  landscape,  dark  with  shade, 
Where  every  object  to  my  sight  presents 
Its  shaded  side  ;  while  here  upon  these  walls 
And  in  that  eastern  wood  upon  the  trunks 
Under  thick  foliage,  reflective  shows 
Its  yellow  lustre.     How  distinct  the  line 
Of  the  horizon  parting  heaven  and  earth. 


In  such  a  night,  'twould  sadden  mirth  to  hear 
The  lulling  sound  of  distant  waterfalls 
By  intervening  hills  so  broke  and  spread 
That  whence  it  comes  the  ear  no  more  discerns. 
Seeming  diffused  alike  on  every  side, 
A  gentle  murmur  filling  all  the  air  ; 
As  if  all  nature  charg'd  with  life  intense. 
Breathed  softly  in  one  universal  sigh. 
The  thrilling  tones  of  an  Eolian  harp 
In  such  a  night  would  half  entrance  the  sad, 
Its  deep  vibrations,  shook  from  chords  that  quake 


155 


15G  THE    AGE    OF    BENEVOLENCE. 

As  with  the  touch  of  quiv'ring  fingers  hid 
From  mortal  sight,  would  sink  into  the  soul 
And  half  persuade  fond  fancy  that  the  hand 
Of  some  departed  sympathizing  friend 
Dearly  beloved  and  deeply  mourned,  was  there. 

Now  drowned  in  sweet  repose  are  man  and  beast, 
While  swift  and  silent  as  on  angel's  wings 
Time  by  them  flies.         *         *         * 

'Tis  midnight :  o'er  the  marshy  meadows  rest 
Damp  vapours  thin  and  pale  ;  while  overhead 
Hangs  far  aloft  beneath  the  firmament, 
And  just  beneath,  a  cloudy  canopy, 
Milk-white  and  curdled  in  thick  spots,  oft  called 
The  seeds  of  coming  rain,  but  to  the  eye 
Of  fancy  seeming  like  a  flock  of  swans 
In  mid-air  hovering  still.     All  nature  sleeps 
Beneath  a  tranquillizing  shower  of  light. 
O  what  a  night  for  grief  to  watch  and  weep. 


I  seem  alone  'mid  universal  death, 
Lone  as  a  single  sail  upon  the  sea. 
Lone  as  a  wounded  swan,  that  leaves  the  flock 
To  heal  in  secret  or  to  bleed  and  die. 


'Tis  morn  once  more,  and  morning  with  my  song. 
The  muse  awakes  from  her  long  nightly  dream. 
And  summons  truth  to  interpret  it  by  day. 
If  she  divine  aright,  to  such  as  seek 
For  solitude  and  peace  in  scenes  like  these, 
A  mild  delirium  to  enjoy  secure 
And  nurse  a  tender  gloom,  it  bodes  no  good. 
But  useless  life  and  miserable  age. 


THE 

AGE  OF  BENEVOLENCE. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  BOOK  III. 


Who  scorn  the  hallowed  day,  set  heaven  at  naught. 
Heav'n  would  wear  out  whom  one  short  sabbath  tires. 
Emblem  and  earnest  of  eternal  rest, 
A  festival  with  fruits  celestial  crown'd, 
A  jubilee  releasing  him  from  earth, 
The  day  delights  and  animates  the  saint. 
It  gives  new  vigour  to  the  languid  pulse 
Of  life  divine ;  restores  the  wandering  feet. 
Strengthens  the  weak,  upholds  the  prone  to  slip, 
duickens  the  lingering,  and  the  sinking  lifts, 
Establishing  them  all  upon  a  rock. 
Sabbaths,  like  way-marks,  cheer  the  pilgrim's  path, 
His  progress  mark,  and  keep  his  rest  in  view. 
In  life's  bleak  winter  they  are  pleasant  days, 
Short  foretastes  of  the  long,  long  spring  to  come. 
To  every  new-born  soul,  each  hallowed  morn 
Seems  like  the  first  when  every  thing  was  new. 
Time  seems  an  angel  come  afresh  from  heav'n, 
His  pinions  shedding  fragrance  as  he  flies. 
And  his  bright  hour-glass  running  sands  of  gold. 
In  every  thing  a  smiling  God  is  seen. 
On  earth  his  beauty  blooms,  and  in  the  sun 
His  glory  shines.     In  objects  overlooked 
On  other  days  lis  now  arrests  the  eye. 


1'5S  THE    AGE  OF 

Not  in  the  deep  recesses  of  his  works, 

But  on  their  face  he  now  appears  to  dwell. 

While  silence  reigns  among  the  works  of  man, 

The  works  of  God  have  leave  to  speak  his  praise 

With  louder  voice,  in  earth,  and  air,  and  sea. 

His  vital  Spirit,  like  the  light,  pervades 

All  nature,  breathing  round  the  air  of  heaven. 

And  spreading  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  life 

A  halcyon  calm.     Sight  were  not  needed  now 

To  bring  him  near,  for  Faith  performs  the  work, 

In  solemn  thought  surrounds  herself  with  God, 

With  such  transparent  vividness,  she  feels 

Struck  with  admiring  awe,  as  if  transform'd 

To  sudden  vision.     Such  is  oft  her  power 

In  God's  own  house,  which  in  th'  absorbing  act 

Of  adoration,  or  inspiring  praise, 

She  with  his  glory  fills,  as  once  a  cloud 

Of  radiance  filled  the  temple's  inner  court; 

At  which  display  she  cries  with  trembling  awe 

How  dreadful  is  this  place  !  while  love  responds, 

How  amiable  thy  courts,  my  King,  my  God  ! 


*  Thou  too,  Napoleon,  how  didst  thou  exult 
In  all  thy  might  and  fame.     Now  too  how  changed ! 
Thy  kingdom  gone,  how  art  thou  driven  from  men, 
From  the  great  world,  to  spend  thy  days  alone, 
To  make  thee  know  there  is  a  God  that  reigns 
And  gives  the  crowns  of  earth  to  whom  he  will. 
By  mad  ambition  led,  how  didst  thou  ride 
With  streaming  colours  o'er  the  restless  waves 
Of  human  glory.     Now  how  art  thou  cast 
Upon  a  cheerless  rock,  in  deep  disgrace, 
A  spectacle  and  warning  to  the  world  ; 
Thy  fortunes  the  career,  thy  fate  the  end 

*  Written  while  Napoleon  was  at  St.  Helena. 


BENEVOLENCE.  ISd 

Of  earthly  greatness,  in  its  proudest  form. 

How  art  thou  fallen  !  so  low  that  e'en  thy  foes 

Lose  half  their  indignation  at  thy  crimes 

In  pity  for  thy  melancholy  fate. 

Kept  in  thy  rocky  tower,  thou  now  art  viewed 

With  safety,  though  with  trembling,  as  long  known 

The  tiger  that  had  ravaged  half  the  world. 

The  wand'rers  of  the  sea  who  pass  thine  isle 

And  mark  the  spot,  how  small,  and  wild,  and  lone, 

With  wagging  head  and  taunting  lips  inquire. 

Is  this  the  man  that  caused  the  earth  to  quake  ? 

That  burnt  her  cities,  laid  her  countries  waste. 

And  shook  her  thrones  and  kingdoms  to  the  dust  ? 

Where  now  the  objects  of  thy  heart's  delight, 

Where  now  the  pomp  of  armies  in  array. 

The  waving  banners  and  the  dazzling  arms. 

The  trumpet's  clang,  the  neighing  of  fierce  steeds. 

The  din  of  martial  bands,  the  word,  the  shout, 

That  rouse  and  fire  and  madden  all  the  soul 

While  panting  for  the  onset,  or  amidst 

The  heat  of  battle  ?     Where  the  victory  proud, 

The  rattling  of  thy  furious  chariot  wheels 

O'er  crumbling  crowns  and  plains  of  bleaching  bones. 

The  spoil  of  nations  ?  the  triumphal  train  ? 

The  acclamation  of  saluting  crowds. 

And  all  the  ensigns  of  renown  and  pow'r  ? 

Gone  like  the  pageants  of  a  maniac's  brain. 

Poor  solitary  man,  what  hast  thou  more. 

What  hast  thou  left  congenial  to  thy  mind 

To  busy  its  dread  workings,  and  content 

Its  boundless  longings  1     What  to  give  support 

To  thy  faint  heart  in  all  its  sinking  hours  ? 

Ah,  what  to  smooth  the  rough  decline  of  life 

And  light  thee  through  the  shadowy  vale  of  death  ? 

Hadst  though  not  cast  away  the  truth  of  God, 

Denied  thy  Saviour,  turned  thy  back  on  heaven 

And  braved  the  wrath  to  come  from  early  youth. 

In  some  desponding  hour,  when  self-immured, 


160 


THE    AGE    OF 

Or  in  some  lonely  walk  o'er  bloodless  plains 
Or  heights  from  which  thick  ranks  of  coming  waves 
Are  seen  afar,  as  if  from  Europe  sent 
To  bear  to  thee  dread  visions  of  the  past, 
And  roar  and  dash  around  thy  rocky  isle 
To  wake  thy  conscience  from  its  torpid  sleep, 
The  hope  were  strong  that  mem'ry  thus  beset 
Would  bring  thy  crimes  in  long  and  black  array 
To  thy  astonished  view,  nor  rest  permit 
Till  by  omnipotence  an  entrance  wide 
Were  opened  for  conviction  and  remorse 
Into  each  fortified  recess  within. 
How  would  the  generous  heart  of  every  land 
Rejoice,  should  penitence  yet  mark  the  close 
Of  thy  eventful  life,  and  mercy  wash 
Thy  spirit  pure  in  its  all  cleansing  fount ! 
How  welcome  were  the  tidings  that  the  peace 
Of  heaven,  the  fruit  of  child-like  faith  and  love, 
In  thy  tumultuous  bosom  had  begun 
Its  gentle  reign.     How  far  from  hateful,  nay 
How  lovely  and  how  truly  great  wert  thou 
On  bended  knees  at  thy  Redeemer's  feet, 
Dumb  with  confusion  or  with  loud  lament 
O'er  thy  offences,  pleading  for  his  grace, 
And  bowing  to  his  will  with  pride  subdued. 
That  were  the  vict'ry  of  a  noble  mind. 
Thy  triumphs  o'er  mankind  have  made  thee  known, 
A  vict'ry  o'er  thyself  would  make  thee  great. 
The  conquest  of  the  world  were  mean  to  this, 
More  than  an  earthly  diadem  were  thine, 
And  more  than  immortality  in  name. 
But  if  no  season  of  relenting  come 
With  hope  attendant,  one  will  come  at  last 
Fraught  with  despair  eternal  and  intense. 
Though  thou  hast  peopled  the  dark  realms  of  death 
These  many  years  with  an  unfeeling  heart, 
A  scene  is  coming  which  will  make  thee  feel. 
With  all  thy  hardihood  thou  canst  not  stand 


BENEVOLENCE.  161 

Unmoved  a  moment,  when  before  the  bar 
Of  stern  impartial  justice,  millions  slain 
By  thy  ambition,  cut  off  unprepared 
And  sent  to  judgment,  millions  more  bereaved, 
All  cry  for  vengeance  on  thy  single  head. 
Then  shall  past  glory  but  increase  thy  shame. 
Then  vvouldst  thou  gladly  into  nothing  shrink, 
Or  be  the  most  obscure  of  all  the  slaves 
That  ever  crouched  and  trembled  at  thy  nod. 


Among  the  chief  occasions  which  invite 
The  patriot,  philanthropist  and  saint 
To  great  exertions,  what  more  loudly  calls 
On  either,  than  the  miserable  state 
Of  Afric's  sons  in  iron  bondage  held  ? 
Where  held  in  bondage  1     In  what  savage  land  ? 
Where  learning  and  religion  never  shed 
Their  meliorating  beams ;  and  where  the  rights. 
The  natural  rights  of  man  were  never  known  ? 
In  no  such  land,  such  corner  of  the  world  ; 
But  in  the  midst  of  the  united  realm 
Of  learning^ and  religion  ;  and  where,  too, 
The  natural  rights  of  man  are  clearly  known  ; 
Nay,  more,  are  owned,  and  made  a  public  boast. 
All  are  born  free,  and  all  with  equal  rights. 
So  speaks  the  charter  of  a  nation  proud 
Of  her  unequall'd  liberties  and  laws. 
While  in  that  nation,  shameful  to  relate. 
One  man  in  five  is  born  and  dies  a  slave. 
Is  this  my  country?  this  that  happy  land, 
The  wonder  and  the  envy  of  the  world  ? 
O  for  a  mantle  to  conceal  her  shame  ! 
But  why,  when  Patriotism  cannot  hide 
The  ruin  which  her  guilt  will  surely  bring 
If  unrepented  ;  and  unless  the  God 
Who  pour'd  his  plagues  on  Egypt  till  she  let 
21 


162 


THE    AGE  OF 

The  oppressed  go  free,  and  often  pours  his  wrath 

In  earthquakes  and  tornadoes  on  the  isles 

Of  western  India,  laying  waste  their  fields. 

Dashing  their  mercenary  ships  ashore, 

Tossing  the  isles  themselves  like  floating  wrecks, 

And  burying  towns  alive  in  one  wide  grave 

No  sooner  ope'd  but  closed  ;  let  judgment  pass 

For  once  untasted  till  the  general  doom. 

Can  it  go  well  with  us  while  we  retain 

This  cursed  thing  ?     Will  not  untimely  frosts. 

Devouring  insects,  drought,  and  wind  and  hail. 

Destroy  the  fruits  of  ground  long  till'd  in  chains  ? 

Will  not  some  daring  spirit  born  to  thoughts 

Above  his  beast-like  state,  find  out  the  truth 

That  Africans  are  men  ;  and  catching  fire 

From  Freedom's  altar  raised  before  his  eyes 

With  incense  fuming  sweet,  in  others  light 

A  kindred  flame  in  secret,  till  a  train 

Kindled  at  once,  deal  death  on  every  side  ? 

Cease  then,  Columbia,  for  thy  safety  cease, 

And  for  thine  honour,  to  proclaim  the  praise 

Of  thy  fair  shores  of  liberty  and  joy. 

While  thrice  five  hundred  thousand  wretched  slaves 

In  thine  own  bosom,  start  at  every  word 

As  meant  to  mock  their  woes,  and  shake  their  chains, 

Thinking  defiance  which  they  dare  not  speak. 

Ye  sons  of  Liberty,  who  rally  round 

Her  standard  at  her  yearly  festival, 

Flourish  the  sword  and  bid  the  cannon  roar 

Defiance  to  all  tyrants,  shout  huzzas 

O'er  flowing  bowls,  and  with  exulting  voice 

Sing  "  give  us  liberty  or  give  us  death  ;" 

Your  joy  is  merciless,  vvhile  its  glad  sounds 

From  more  than  half  the  land  return  in  groans; 

Throw  down  your  banners  lifted  to  the  sky, 

They  will  not  float  on  this  impoisoned  air. 

Away  with  feast  and  song,  come  fast  and  weep — 

Away  with  all  defiance  and  disdain 


BENEVOLENCE.  163 

Of  foreign  tyrants ;  humbly  mourn  our  own. 

For  who  are  tyrants  ?  they  that  make  men  slaves. 

No  more  exult  o'er  kingdoms  of  the  east 

Where  not  a  slave  is  found,  till  here  are  none. 

Of  more  equality  no  longer  boast. 

Rail  at  usurping  peers,  when  ye  have  shown 

That  fifty  tenants  to  support  a  lord, 

is  more  at  war  with  reason  and  with  Heaven 

Than  fifty  slaves  a  planter  to  support. 

In  personal  rights  and  privileges  dear 

The  monarch  rises  not  so  far  above 

The  meanest  free-born  subject  of  his  realm, 

As  does  the  master  o'er  the  helpless  slave. 

With  needful  food  supplied,  the  slave,  say  some, 

Desires  no  more,  and  void  of  care  is  blest. 

If  by  kind  treatment  it  be  sometimes  thus, 

What  does  it  prove,  but  that  the  man  debased 

By  his  condition,  knows  no  higher  good 
Than  what  the  brute  enjoys  ?     And  is  it  just 

To  shut  him  from  all  rational  delight 

Until  he  feel  no  wants  but  those  of  sense. 

Then  call  him  happy  to  excuse  the  crime  ? 

Or  is  it  then  no  blessing  to  be  free  ? 

And  were  they  fools  who  struggled  to  obtain 

Our  independence — to  throw  off  a  yoke 

Far  less  oppressive  than  the  one  we  bind 

On  Afric's  sable  sons  1  Are  they  not  tax'd  i 

Yes  !  to  the  very  blood  that  warms  their  veins. 

No  rights  have  they,  not  one  for  self-defence. 

The  master  may  inflict  whate'er  he  will 

On  this  side  death  !  may  lash,  and  maul,  and  kick, 

All  which  these  eyes  have  seen  ;  may  chain  and  yoke 

And  if  the  sufferer  but  a  finger  lift 

Against  the  madman  to  preserve  his  life, 

The  law  condemns  him,  friendless  and  unheard. 

Hail  land  of  liberty  !  Come  all  ye  kings 

And  tyrants  of  the  world,  come  near  and  view 

This  land  of  liberty,  where  men  are  free 


164  THE    AGE    OF 

To  task,  and  scourge,  and  chain  their  fellow  men 

At  their  own  pleasure,  and  without  the  fear 

Of  any  human  bar.     What  man  can  plead 

That  such  ill  treatment  is  but  seldom  seen, 

When  every  master,  e'en  the  most  humane. 

Rules  with  the  lash,  and  with  the  lash  must  rule  ; 

Slaves  can  be  governed  only  by  the  lash. 

No  obligations  bind  them,  and  no  fears 

Of  ought  but  corporal  punishment  restrain. 

Much  more  is  granted,  for  their  sake  and  ours 

They  must  be  kept  in  ignorance  till  freed. 

A  taste  of  knowledge  would  a  torment  prove, 

Like  joyful  music  to  the  sad  in  soul  ; 

Or  like  a  view  of  land  beyond  the  reach 

While  sinking  in  the  flood.     Expand  their  minds 

And  they  will  know  their  rights  ;  will  learn  the  worth 

Of  freedom,  and  up  starting  from  the  ground 

Will  burst  their  chains  and  raise  our  mad'ning  cry, 

"  Or  give  us  liberty  or  give  us  death." 

Keep  the  n  in  ignorance  and  we  are  safe  ; 

Press  them  to  earth  like  brutes,  and  they  will  bear 

Nor  rise  against  us  till  the  judgment  day. 

'Tis  mockery  to  soothe  whom  we  oppress. 

'Tis  insult  to  attempt  to  put  them  off 

By  mitigating  means,  to  make  amends 

For  loss  of  liberty — to  make  them  feel. 

And  make  mankind  believe,  that  they  are  blest. 

All  short  of  full  deliverance  is  in  vain. 

'Twill  not  suffice  to  lessen  wrongs  like  theirs  : 

To  soften  hardships  so  severe  at  best. 

No  !  chains  are  chains,  though  half  concealed  with  flowers, 

No  !  Slavery  is  a  tyger,  even  when  it  seems 

Most  like  a  lamb.     Its  kindest  smiles  are  frowns, 

Its  tender  mercies  cruel  as  the  grave. 

It  is  a  monster  that  cannot  be  tamed  ; 

Hard  as  a  rock  of  adamant  his  heart. 

Then  will  ye  play  with  him  as  with  a  bird  ? 

Attempt  to  lead  him  with  a  silken  string, 


BENEVOLENCE.  165 

To  stroke  his  bristled  mane  and  gaily  pat 

His  iron  scales  ?  Beware  lest  he  despise 

Such  mock  caresses  ;  lest  they  stir  him  up 

To  put  forth  in  a  rage,  his  latent  strength. 

I  will  not  say  religion  can  do  nought 

To  ease  the  heavy  load  of  men  enslaved  ; 

Nor  will  I  say,  to  teach  them  sacred  truths. 

Truths  that  require  submission  and  content. 

Tending  to  humble  not  elate  the  heart, 

Will  be  to  plant  the  seeds  of  civil  war. 

Much  less  would  I  be  thought  to  intimate 

That  this  is  not  our  duty,  or  this  all. 

What  then  ?  Because  religion  is  a  balm 

For  every  wound,  may  wounds  be  multiplied  ? 

Because  the  martyr  triamphed  in  the  flames, 

Was  it  the  less  a  crime  to  light  the  fire? 

Because  religion  made  its  converts  yield 

Subjection  to  each  ordinance  of  man. 

Even  when  Nero  swam  in  christian  blood, 

Was  persecution  of  its  horrors  stripp'd  ? 

And  so,  because  the  slave  when  taught  from  Heaven, 
May  bear  the  worst  in  peace,  without  complaint, 

Trusting  in  Him  whose  vengeance  will  repay. 
Is  slavery  no  oppression  ?  What  if  some. 
Finding  in  this  strange  land  the  precious  pearl 

Which  they  had  always  wanted  in  their  own 

Will  bless  forever  the  once-cursed  day 

When  they  were  torn  from  all  that  men  hold  dear, 

Confined  in  irons  and  to  bondage  doom'd  ? 

Does  this  afford  the  shadow  of  a  plea 

In  our  behalf?  Or  makes  it  ought  the  less 

Our  duty  to  emancipate  the  whole  ? 

But  when  and  how  may  this  be  safely  done  ? 

Done   it  should  be  ;  with  safety  if  it  can, 

With  danger  if  it  must.     It  ill  becomes 

Our  name  to  shrink  from  suffering  in  our  turn, 

We  who  have  reaped  the  profits  of  their  fall 

Selfish  in  all,  shall  we  expect  to  make 


166 


THE    AGE    OF 

Their  rise  our  gain  ?  Say  not  tiiey  are  entail'd 

Our  sad  inheritance,  and  we  must  bear 

What  we  lament,  but  have  not  power  to  change. 

Lament  and  bear  !  Is  this  the  generous  plaint 

Of  charity  perplex'd  and  sorely  griev'd? 

No,  'tis  the  plea  of  avarice,  who  pays 

Her  court  to  charity  to  still  her  fears, 

While  safe  possession  is  the  end  in  view. 

But  more  than  calm  endurance  is  our  crime. 

And  more  than  reaping  what  our  father?  sovv'd. 

Their  very  spirit  lives,  their  very  sin 

In  all  its  horrors,  lives  in  spite  of  law. 

Each  year  brings  thousands  o'er  the  groaning  waves 

To  be  sent  in  by  stealth  through  our  wide  bounds  : 

And  when  discovered,  forfeited  like  goods, 

Like  them  too  they  are  seiz'd  and  advertis'd 

And  sold  at  auction,  to  complete  the  crime. 

Will  not  Jehovah  visit  for  such  things  ? 

Will  he  not  be  aveng'd  on  such  a  land  ? 

Go  ye,  whose  feelings  custom  has  not  steel'd, 

See  men  to  market  driv'n  like  fatten'd  herds 

There  to  be  sold  and  parted,  friend  from  friend, 

Parted  by  scourges,  yokes  or  galling  chains, 

Then  judge  if  slavery  is  no  more  our  crime, 

But  our  calamity.     Go  first  and  view 

Fair  freedom's  temple,  while  her  chosen  sons 

From  her  confederated  realms  are  met 

To  pay  their  yearly  oflPrings  at  her  shrine. 

Enter  and  hear  the  clap  of  loud  applause. 

When  by  some  fav'rite  voice,  declaiming  loud, 

To  crouded  aisles  and  galleries  adorn'd 

With  forms  of  beauty  rang'd  in  brilliant  rows, 

This  matchless  land  is  blazon'd  to  the  stars 

For  liberty,  equality,  and  joy  : 

Then  go  and  view  a  drove  of  human  souls, 

Immortal  beings  for  whom  Jesus  died. 

To  market  driv'n,  and  by  their  fellow  men 

Whose  blackness  lies  far  deeper  than  their  skin. 


BENEVOLENCE. 

Go  listen  to  the  lashes  and  the  shrieks 

That  mingling  rend  the  air,  while  clinging  friends 

Husband  and  wife,  the  mother  and  the  child. 

By  various  purchasers  are  torn  apart 

And  doom'd  to  different  regions  of  the  land, 

Never  to  see  each  other's  faces  more  ; 

Never  to  hear  by  letter  or  report 

Of  other's  welfare  dearer  than  their  own  ; 

Never  to  know  their  death,  till  after  years 

'Tis  learnt  by  meeting  them  beyond  the  grave. 

0  proud  Columbia,  hide  thy  towering  head 
Low  in  the  dust,  in  shame  and  penitence. 

Till  from  thy  robes  be  wash'd  the  stain  of  blood  ; 
Then  like  a  goddess  rising  from  the  sea, 
Then  rising  in  thy  glory,  prove  thyself 
"  The  queen  of  earth,  the  daughter  of  the  skies." 

1  see  thy  glory  with  prophetic  eye, 

I  see  thee  with  thy  crown  of  many  stars 

On  thy  fair  head,  and  clothed  in  spotless  robes. 

Moving  in  state  toward  the  Atlantic  shore  : 

With  one  hand  casting  to  the  waves  below 

The  last  of  all  thy  slave-oppressing  chains, 

And  with  the  other  holding  to  thy  breast 

The  book  of  God.     I  hear  the  shouts  of  joy 

That  ring  from  end  to  end  of  thy  domain. 

I  hear  the  sounds  prolong'd  from  wave  to  wave 

And  now  they  strike  and  echo  on  the  coast 

Of  joyful  Africa.     The  time  will  come — 

Sure  as  the  groans  of  earth  shall  all  be  lost 

In  the  hosannas  of  millennial  bliss — 

The  time  will  come  when  slavery  shall  cease, 

When'this  whole  nation,  like  that  favour'd  part 

Northward  and  eastward  stretching  from  the  shores 

Of  Susquehannah,  shall  enjoy  the  smiles 

Of  freedom,  equal,  common,  as  the  air. 

At  such  a  prospect,  who,  that  has  a  heart 

With  one  remaining  spark  of  generous  fire, 

Feels  not  an  inward  glowing  of  delight  ? 


167 


168 


THE    AGE    OF 

Who  that  can  pray,  will  cease  to  importune 

The  Lord  of  all  to  hasten  the  event. 

From  those  who  purchase  of  their  own  accord 

The  blood  and  sinews  of  their  fellow  men, 

No  pity  is  expected  ;  but  from  them 

On  whom  the  sad  possession  is  entail'd 

Without  the  power  to  set  the  pris'ners  free, 

At  least  from  all  the  pious  and  humane, 

Much  may  be  hoped  in  aid  of  every  plan 

For  hastening  on  the  day  of  full  release. 

These  join'd  with  those  whose  blessing  'tis  to  live 

Among  the  hills  and  vallies  of  the  north, 

"  Where  all  born  free  inherit  equal  rights," 

Will  form  a  host  not  armed,  but  inspir'd 

By  reason,  right,  humanity  and  Heav'n, 

To  undertake  and  to  effect  the  work 

Of  liberating  brethren  from  their  chains. 

O  for  some  Wilberforce  to  lead  the  van  ! 

To  rise  and  say,  "  It  must  and  shall  be  done  ;" 

To  rise  the  hundredth  time,  unaw'd  by  frowns, 

Undamp'd  by  failures,  and  repeat  the  same. 

Till  vict'ry  crown  him  with  a  fairer  wreath 

Than  hero  ever  won  or  poet  feign'd. 

The  wrongs  of  Africa  must  be  redress'd 
Extensive  as  her  injuries,  her  claims 
For  compensation  are  upon  the  world. 
A  handful  honoured  with  the  christian  name, 
Buried  in  dungeons  in  the  savage  coast 
Of  Barbary,  have  summon'd  from  afar 
The  fleets  of  mighty  nations  to  their  aid. 
'Twere  noble,  though  but  just,  in  nations  once 
Inhumanly  employ'd  in  forging  chains 
For  unoffending  Africa,  to  draw 
A  line  of  ships,  to  build  therewith  a  wall 
Around  her,  to  defend  her  helpless  shores 
From  ruffian  out-laws  ;  to  explore  the  holds 
Of  all  suspected  ships,  v/hatever  flag 
May  dance  on  high,  to  cover  what's  below  : 


BENEVOLENCE.  169 

And  from  these  loathsome  dungeons,  floating  graves, 
To  raise  to  life,  to  light  and  liberty, 
The  pining,  dying  captives  there  confin'd, 
Bound  down  in  irons,  and  to  hardships  doom'd 
That  ending  in  the  loss  of  half  their  lives. 
Thus  rob  the  murderers  before  they  reach 
Their  destin'd  port.     In  that  tremendous  day 
When  from  her  vast  unfathomable  depths 
The  opening  sea  shall  yield  her  rising  dead ; 
Oh  !  what  a  host,  in  one  continuous  line, 
Marking  to  gazing  worlds  the  wonted  course 
Of  this  infernal  traffic  o'er  the  main, 
Through  floods  divided  by  the  trumpet's  sound, 
Like  that  divided  by  the  sacred  rod 
Of  Israel's  leader,  shall  ascend  to  fill 
The  persecuting  nations  with  dismay. 
Then  let  the  nations  tremble  and  reform. 
Let  those  who  have  begun,  pursue  the  work 
Of  restitution,  till  no  slave  be  found. 
And  let  my  country  be  the  first  to  pay 
The  full  arrears  of  justice,  still  the  due 
Of  injured  Africa,  that  at  the  bar 
Of  final  retribution,  she  may  stand 
The  first  forgiven,  or  the  last  conderan'd. 


22 


THE 

AGE  OF  BENEVOLENCE. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  BOOK  IV. 


The  good  man's  body  ere  it  can  ascend 
To  its  appointed  place  'mid  angel  forms, 
Must  drop  its  load  of  perishable  flesh, 
Its  burden  of  infirmities  and  pains  ; 
Must  throw  off  its  corruption,  and  put  on 
The  incorruption  of  a  spirit  pure. 
Address'd  for  flight,  it  stretches  its  new  wings 
And  with  fresh  immortality  inspir'd, 
Claps  them  in  triumph  o'er  its  empty  grave. 
Then  springs  aloft ;  and  like  a  bird  uncag'd, 
Flies  far  away  from  all  its  former  haunts 
With  death  and  danger  fearfully  beset. 
Henceforth  not  one  of  all  those  maladies, 
So  thick  between  the  cradle  and  the  tomb, 
Clinging  so  close  through  all  this  mortal  life. 
Spurring  it  on  more  eagerly,  the  more 
They  load  it  down,  can  e'er  molest  or  touch 
The  liberated  body,  in  the  realms 
Of  perfect  bliss.     No  violent  disease 
Racks  it  with  pain,  its  heart-strings  breaks  at  once, 
And  tears  it  from  its  griping  hold  on  life. 
No  pale  consuming  sickness  by  degrees 
Drinks  its  vitality  before  it  kills, 
Leaving  a  breathing  skeleton  behind  ; 
Lays  on  its  victim's  head  a  gentle  hand, 
And  flatters  it  to  death  ;  its  thoughtless  guards 


173  THE    AGE    OF 

Decoys  off  one  by  one,  and  unawares 
Mines  its  deep  way  into  the  vital  part. 
Th'  imperishable  frame  knows  no  fatigue 
From  long  activity,  and  hence  no  need 
Of  rest,  or  sleep,  to  strengthen  or  refresh. 
It  fears  no  with'ring  from  the  frost  of  age, 
And  from  its  winter  no  decrease  of  warmth. 
It  feels  no  lassitude  from  length  of  years, 
No  feebleness  of  limbs,  no  blunted  sense, 
No  clogging  of  the  wheels  of  life,  no  loss 
Of  youthful  relish  for  the  sweets  of  heav'n. 


If  converse  with  Jehovah  forty  days 
Amid  the  terrors  of  mount  Sinai,  made 
A  mortal's  countenance  like  an  angel's  shine, 
O  how  eternal  converse  with  the  Lamb, 
Upon  mount  Sion,  'mid  its  signs  of  peace, 
While  all  around  is  calm  and  beautiful, 
Will  make  the  face  of  an  immortal  glow. 
How  will  his  lips,  in  his  Redeemer's  praise 
Hosannas  chanting,  burn  with  fervour  pure. 
His  very  fingers,  flying  o'er  the  strings 
Of  his  melodious  harp,  with  rosy  tinge 
Shall  grow  resplendent,  half  transparent  grow, 
Like  those  of  some  fair  hand  before  a  lamp. 
Held  near  to  guard  it  from  the  passing  air. 
The  saint  redeem'd,  his  glory  not  innate. 
From  his  Redeemer  constantly  received, 
The  mere  reflection  of  his  solar  blaze, 
May,  hence,  perhaps,  outshine  an  angel,  clad 
With  native  splendour ;  as  the  moon,  adorn'd 
With  lustre  borrow'd  from  the  source  of  day. 
Outshines  a  star  with  light  inherent  deck'd. 


Death  is  not  a  door 
That  leads  into  some  unknown  abode 


BENEVOLENCE.  173 

Of  long  forgetfulness,  but  a  bright  gate 

Which  opens  into  paradise  direct. 

The  deathless  spirit,  disembodied  flies 

As  ^wift  as  thought  to  its  eternal  home. 

Transporting  change  !  from  earth  to  heav'n  at  once, 

Through  no  long,  cheerless  intermediate  state. 

To  fall  asleep  in  this  benighted  world 

And  in  an  instant  wake  in  realms  of  day. 

Unnumber'd  suns  on  this  deep  midnight  rise, 

And  harps  unnumber'd  this  dead  silence  break. 

One  moment,  rack'd  with  pain,  the  good  man  lies 

Gasping  in  death,  the  next,  he  mounts  on  high 

Fir'd  with  the  raptures  of  immortal  life. 

One  moment,  he  beholds  himself  confin'd 

Within  a  narrow  chamber,  hut  obscure, 

Or  dreary  dungeon,  and  the  next,  through  realms 

Of  boundless  joy,  expatiating  wide. 

Without  restraint.      One  moment  he  beholds 

Himself 'mid  weeping  mortals,  and  the  next 

'Mid  seraphs  smiling  bright  ;  one  moment,  hears 

The  painful  sobs  of  sympathizing  grief, 

The  next,  the  shouts  of  gratulating  joy. 

With  such  a  change  before  him,  who  would  dread 

An  early  death,  amid  the  fairest  scenes  ^ 

And  brightest  prospects,  that  the  earth  presents  ? 

The  comfort  of  his  parents,  and  the  flow'r 
Of  all  their  offspring,  lovely  from  a  child, 
For  years  devout,  with  genius  bright  endow'd, 
With  academic  honours  crown'd,  prepar'd 
For  sacred  functions,  and  withal  betroth'd 
To  one  well  worthy  of  his  fondest  love  ; 
Was  young  Horatio  when  consumption  lit. 
High  on  his  sunken  cheek,  her  hectic  flush 
Death's  sure  but  timely  warning,  in  its  hue 
Distinguished  from  the  ruddy  glow  of  health, 
As  the  dead  leaf  of  autumn  from  the  rose. 
Nor  less  by  its  distinctness,  unobscur'd 
By  intermixture  with  the  whiteness  round. 
The  nightly  sweat,  cold,  clammy  and  profuse, 


174 


THE    AGE  OF 

Left  him  each  morning,  scarce  an  infant's  strength. 

But  while  his  tender  frame  was  wasting  fast. 

Its  vigour  unimpair'd  his  mind  retain'd, 

Nay  gather'd  force  as  oft  in  that  disease 

Which  weigh'd  him  down  ;  incurable,  but  kind 

To  suffering  excellence.     That  sacred  fire 

Seem'd  fed  with  the  vitality  consum'd, 

And  brighter  shone  through  its  decaying  shrine. 

Fresher  and  fairer  grew  th'  ingrafted  germ 

Of  immortality,  the  more  its  stock 

Was  gently  stript  of  its  degenerate  bloom. 

He  saw  his  end  at  hand,  and  was  the  first 

To  give  up  ev'ry  hope  of  longer  life. 

His  friends  began  to  flatter,  to  assume 

A  cheerful  tone  and  wear  a  smiling  look. 

In  his  endearing  presence,  all  but  one 

Who  could  not  smile,  so  heavy  was  her  heart  ; 

And  when  she  tried  to  speak  some  cheering  words, 

Her  feeble,  trembling  voice  and  starting  tears 

Betray'd  the  anguish  of  despairing  love. 

But  all  the  kind  attempts  of  friendship  fail'd 

To  hide  his  danger  from  himself,  or  raise 

The  expectation  of  returning  health  ; 

And  soon  he  check'd  them  with  far  dearer  hopes. 

Calmly  he  turn'd  his  eyes  away  from  earth 

And  fix'd  them  stedfastly  on  Christ  and  heav'n. 

Till  the  one  thought  of  his  approaching  change 

Absorb'd  his  soul  and  fill'd  it  with  delight 

Unfelt  before.     Dismiss'd  without  a  sigh 

Were  earthly  plans  and  prospects ;  in  their  stead 

Shone  so  invitingly  and  now  so  near 

Celestial  glories.     Ardent  love  to  Christ 

And  the  near  view  of  heav'n  inspired  his  heart 

With  such  a  longing  to  be  on  the  wing. 

That  e'en  to  her,  from  whom  his  earthly  schemes 

For  happiness  deriv'd  their  brightest  charm. 

He  spoke  of  his  departure  in  a  strain 

Of  mingled  joy  and  tenderness,  that  calm'd 

Her  troubled  mind.     The  evening  ere  his  last. 


BENEVOLENCE. 

While  yet  the  window  curtain  drawn  aside 

At  his  request,  show'd  him  the  setting  sun, 

And  all  were  speechless  with  prophetic  grief 

To  see  him  gaze  on  that  departing  orb  ; 

By  love  embolden'd  on  his  bed-side  sate 

This  mourner  dear,  his  cold  and  slender  hand, 

Of  bloodless  white,  between  her  warm  soft  palms 

Tenderly  holding,  on  his  alter'd  face 

Gazing  intently  with  an  eloquent  look 

Of  fond  solicitude,  when  as  he  turn'd 

His  eyes  on  her,  and  feebly  press'd  her  hand. 

Her  struggling  bosom  and  her  gushing  tears 

Rous'd  all  his  sympathy  ;  yet  even  then, 

Soon  as  that  momentary  shock  was  past 

He  rais'd  his  thoughts  and  hers  to  fairer  skies 

Than  these  below,  whose  sun  shall  not  go  down, 

And  where  these  days  of  mourning  have  an  end. 

His  few  remaining  hours  were  spent  in  prayer 

For  his  own  soul  and  for  each  friend  apart ; 

Save  whenemploy'd  in  heav'nly  converse  sweet. 

Soon  as  he  felt  the  chilling  touch  of  death, 

For  ev'ry  absent  member  he  inquired 

Till  the  whole  mournful  family  stood  round. 

When  silence  for  one  thrilling  moment  reign'd  ; 

First  broken  by  a  universal  burst 

Of  sorrow,  witness'd  with  a  pitying  eye 

But  with  unshaken  firmness,  till  he  heard 

The  sympathetic  cry  of  one  too  young 

To  know  her  loss,  but  not  too  young  to  love, 

His  little  sister  in  her  father's  arms. 

Lifted  that  she  might  see  him  and  be  seen. 

Her  mournful  cry,  and  half-averted  look, 

Went  to  his  heart,  but  soon  compos'd  again 

He  tried  to  soothe  her  with  the  kindest  words  : 

Then  with  his  eyes  sufTus'd  with  glist'ning  tears, 

His  parents  thank'd  for  their  unwearied  care. 

And  bade  them  look  for  comfort  from  above. 

To  each  one  present  gave  that  kind  advice 

Which  suited  each,  repeated,  and  enforc'd 


175 


176  THE    AGE    OF    BENEVOLENCE. 

As  the  last  counsel  of  a  dying  friend, 

Just  leaving  all  things  here  for  things  unseen, 

The  world  of  spirits  and  the  God  of  heav'n. 

These  duties  done,  awhile  he  lay  absorb'd 

In  deep  devotion.     On  their  elbows  propp'd 

His  vvither'd  arms  were  raised,  and  o'er  his  breast 

His  fingers  interlock'd.     His  eyes  were  closed 

As  when  in  pleasant  sleep  ;  his  lips  at  times 

Mov'd  gently,  but  no  whisper  could  be  heard. 

A  fixed  serenity  not  quite  a  smile. 

More  sober,  but  as  beautiful  and  sweet, 

O'erspread  his  countenance,  until  the  pains 

Of  dissolution,  pains  yet  unreveal'd. 

Began  to  loose  and  break  the  tender  strings 

That  bind    the  spirit  to  its  partner  frail 

In  mystic  union  ;  when,  at  ev'ry  pang 

A  sudden  brightness  o'er  his  features  came, 

As  ev'ry  pang  the  dying  dolphin  feels 

Sends  a  fresh  lustre  to  its  beauteous  sides. 

Conven'd  to  witness  his  triumphant  death 

Some  friendly  neighbours,  strains  of  his  own  choice 

Were  softly  singing,  when  with  lifted  eyes. 

And  aspect  luminous  as  with  the  light 

Of  heaven's  opening  gate,  he  strove  to  join 

His  voice  with  theirs,  and  breathe  out  all  he  felt ; 

But  in  the  effort  feeble  nature  sunk 

Exhausted  ;  and  while  ev'ry  voice  was  hush'd 

His  fluttering  spirit,    struggling  to  get  free 

Rose  like  the  sky-lark  singing  up  to  heav'n, 

Followed  in  thought  by  friends  devoutly  still, 

And  there  at  once,  united  with  the  blest 

In  chanting  hallelujahs  to  the  Lamb. 


THE  RELIGION  OF  TASTE. 


The  following  Poem,  which  is  mentioned  in  the  Memoir 
as  having  been  delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society 
at  New-Haven,  is  a  Fragment.  It  appears  from  some  brief 
notices,  that  Mr.  Wilcox  had  relinquished  the  design  of  ever 
finishing  the  Age  of  Benevolence, — but  had  it  in  contempla- 
tion to  throw  all  the  unfinished  parts  of  it  into  a  new  work, 
in  the  measure  in  which  the  following  Poem  is  written. 
The  outline  of  his  plan,  which  is  inserted  on  the  succeeding 
page,  was  written  at  Danbury,  and  was  among  the  last  litera- 
ry labours  of  his  hfe.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  poem  deliver- 
ed before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  was  intended  for  one 
Canto  of  the  designed  work. 


CANTO  I. 

Home  of  my  childhood— Orwell — School — Hills — Woods — Distant  Mountains — 
Green-Mountains — Lake  George — Mountains  on  fire — Hunting  Deer — Story  of 
Seth  Miner — Philosophical,  Moral  and  Religious  Reflections. 

CANTO  11. 
Phi  Beta  Kappa  Poem  enlarged. 

CANTO  III. 

Georgia — Southern  Scenery — Cyprus  Forests — Live  Oak — Jessamine — Magno- 
lia— Orange — Cotton  in  Autumn — Rice  Plantations — Slavery — Duelling.  Story  by 
Dea.  C. 

CANTO  IV. 

My  Country — First  Settlement,  &c. —  Ignorance — Intemperance — Profaneness 
— Sabbath-breaking.     Must  be  high  state  of  Intelligence  and  Morals. 

CANTO  V. 
The  World— The  present  Age. 


THE 


RELIGION  OF  TASTE. 


Ye  Quietists  in  homage  to  the  skies. — Night  Thoughts. 


I. 

Deep  in  a  vale,  half  open  to  the  sea, 
With  mountains  half  enclosed,  there  grew  a  wood 
Of  many  a  low  and  many  a  lofty  tree, 
Sheltering  the  sparrow's  and  the  raven's  brood  ; 
But  not  in  its  own  native  dress  it  stood, 
Untrimmed  and  pathless,  for  within  its  heart 
Dwelt  an  Enchantress  of  romantic  mood. 
And  she  had  wrought  of  all  with  wondrous  art 
A  labyrinth,  from  which,  none  entering  Could  depart. 

II. 

Her  name  Imagination, — tall  her  form; 
Elastic  with  eternal  youth  her  tread  ; 
Her  high  and  polished  brow  defied  each  storm 
Of  grief  and  time  ;  o'er  all  her  face  was  spread 
A  shade  of  happy  thought  that  never  fled, 
But  lighter  grew  or  deeper,  as  she  raised 
Her  large  bright  eyes  and  nature's  volume  read, 
Or  fixed  them  on  the  ground,  or  upward  gazed 
As  in  devotion  wrapt  while  glory  round  her  blazed. 


182 


THE     RELIGION 
III. 

A  band  of  Nymphs  and  Graces  with  her  dwelt, 
Lived  in  her  smiles,  upon  her  accents  hung, 
And  by  her  impulse  moved  and  thought  and  felt  ; 
Love,  Beauty,  Pleasure,  Hope,  were  first  among 
The  blooming  troop,  and  nearest  to  her  clung, 
Reflecting  every  charm  till  made  their  own, 
And  till  they  bore  her  likeness,  as  if  sprung 
From  her,  their  foster-mother,  on  her  thrown 
Till  she  had  won  each  heart,  and  proud  of  each  had  grown, 

IV. 

I  thought  to  paint  them,  but  enamoured  stopt  :— 
Some  muse,  a  pencil  of  soft  sunbeams  dip 
In  heaven's  pure  dew  on  rose  and  lily  dropt, 
To  draw  the  brow,  the  cheek,  the  smiling  lip. 
Tinged,  as  of  cup  enchanted,  wont  to  sip, 
The  eye  in  liquid  light,  the  long  bright  hair, 
And  all  the  slender,  rounded  forms  that  trip 
O'er  the  green  earth  half  buoyant  in  the  air, 
And  with  sweet  glances  thrown,  unwary  hearts  to  snare. 

V. 

I  see  them  passing  in  the  blended  light 

Of  their  own  forms,  as  in  an  atmosphere 
Of  rosy  lustre  ; — but  they  mock  my  sight ; 
Now  as  they  flit  along  in  order  clear 
Each  seems  herself,  and  now  they  all  appear 
Lost  in  each  other,  like  some  sister  band. 
Giving  and  taking  loveliness,  as  here 
And  there,  they  dance  and  mingle  hand  in  hand  ; 
Now  in  a  sunny  mist  they  vanish  where  they  stand. 

VI. 

And  let  them  go  ; — two  others  rise  to  view, 
That  may  far  better  wake  my  deep-toned  lyre, — 
Calm  Contemplation  with  clear  eye  of  blue 
And  bright  Enthusiasm  with  dark  orbs  of  fire,— 
Each  with  a  form  and  spirit  that  aspire 
To  seeming  rivalry  with  their  loved  queen, — 
One  wrapt  in  thought,  and  one  in  high  desire, 
One  bold,  one  gentle,  both  of  lofty  mien, — 
A  burning  seraph  one,  a  cherub  one  seren*. 


OF    TASTE-. 


183 


VII. 

With  the  soft  lustre  of  thick  flaxen  hair, 
And  cheek  of  snowy  white,  that  milder  one 
Seemed  of  some  land  of  tempered  beams  and  air  ;— 
The  other's  cheek  was  tinged  as  by  the  sun 
Of  sultry  climes ;  but  no  eye  sought  to  shun 
That  pure  transparent  olive,  while  beneath 
The  Mite  vermil  blood  is  seen  to  glow  and  run, 
And  tresses  of  the  deepest  chesnut  wreath 
Her  round  and  polished  neck  as  light  the  zephyrs  breathe. 

VIII. 

Wandering  together  oft,  and  oft  alone. 
They  mused  o'er  all  the  fair,  the  wild,  and  vast, 
And  drank  in  pleasure,  when  all  nature  shone 
In  sunny  bloom  and  calm,  and  when  o'ercast 
With  solemn  shade,  or  swept  by  stormy  blast  : — 
Deep  and   delicious  was  their  waking  dream. 
Through  placid  smiles,  or  warm  tears  falling  fast 
How  from  each  feature  did  their  spirits  seem 
To  breathe  in  silence  sweet,  or  in  quick  rapture  beam. 

IX. 

'Twas  by  her  own  soft  magic,  or  the  charms 
Imparted  to  some  favourite  of  her  train. 
Their  Queen  would  hush  her  captive's  first  alarms, 
Then  lead  him  on  as  by  a  silken  chain. 
Through  all  the  windings  of  her  fair  domain. 
To  fountain,  lake,  and  grotto,  grove  and  bower, 
'Mid  murmuring  brooks,  or  birds  of  tuneful  strain, 
O'er  grassy  paths  inlaid  with  many  a  flower. 
And  at  each  bright  and  glad,  or  calm  and  fragrant  hour. 

X. 

Oft  with  amotion  of  her  wand,  she  wrought 
Some  work  of  fresh  enchantment  ;  to  his  view 
A  long-forgotten  scene  of  beauty  brought. 
Made  every  feature  clearer,  every  hue. 
And  over  all  a  lovelier  aspect  threw  ; 
Or  full  before  him  visions  of  each  clime. 
She  spread  as  quickly,  formed  creations  new 
Or  changed  her  own  loved  wood,  with  art  sublime 
Hastened,  or  backward  turned,  or  stopt  the  wheels  of  time. 


184 


rHE    RELIGION 

XI. 

Just  in  the  centre  of  that  wood  was  reared 
Her  castle,  all  of  marble,  smooth  and  white  ; 
Above  the  thick  young  trees,  its  top  appeared 
Among  the  naked  trunks  of  towering  height ; 
And  here  at  morn  and  eve  it  glittered  bright, 
As  often  by  the  far  off  traveller  seen, 
In  level  sunbeams,  or  at  dead  of  night 
When  the  low  moon  shot  in  her  rays  between 
That  wide  spread  roof  and  floor  of  solid  foliage  green. 

XII. 

Through  this  wide  interval  the  roving  eye 
From  turrets  proud  might  trace  the  waving  line 
Where  meet  the  mountains  green,  and  azure  sky, 
And  view  the  deep  when  sun-gilt  billows  shine  ; — 
Fair  bounds  to  sight,  that  never  thought  confine, 
But  tempt  it  far  beyond,  till  by  the  charm 
Of  some  sweet  wood-note  or  some  whispering  pine 
Called  home  again,  or  by  the  soft  alarm 
3f  Love's  approaching  step,  and  her  encircling  arm. 

XIII. 

Through  this  wide  interval,  the  mountain  side 
Showed  many  a  sylvan  slope  and  rocky  steep  : — 
Here  roaring  torrents  in  dark  forests  hide  ; 
There  silver  streamlets  rush  to  view  and  leap 
Unheard  from  lofty  cliffs  to  vallies  deep  : 
Here  rugged  peaks  look  smooth  in  sunset  glow, 
Along  the  clear  horizon's  western  sweep  ; 
There  from  some  eastern  summit  moon-beams  flow 
Along  o'er  level  wood,  far  down  to  plains  below. 

XIV. 

Now  stretched  a  blue,  and  now  a  golden  zone 
Round  that  horizon  ;  now  o'er  mountains  proud 
Dim  vapours  rest,  or  bright  ones  move  alone  : 
An  ebon  wall,  a  smooth  portentous  cloud, 
First  muttering  low,  anon  with  thunder  loud, 
Now  rises  quick  and  brings  a  sweeping  wind 
O'er  all  that  wood  in  waves  before  it  bowed  ; 
And  now  a  rainbow,  with  its  top  behind 
A  spangled  veil  of  leaves,  seems  heaven  and  earth  to  bind. 


OF    TASTE. 

XV. 

Above  the  canopy,  so  thick  and  green, 
And  spread  so  high  o'er  that  enchanted  vale, 
Through  scattered  openings  oft  were  glimpses  seen 
Of  fleecy  clouds,  that  linked  together,  sail 
In  moonlight  clear  before  the  gentle  gale  : 
Sometimes  a  shooting  meteor  draws  a  glance  ; 
Sometimes  a  twinkling  star,  or  planet  pale, 
Long  holds  the  lighted  eye  as  in  a  trance  ; 
And  oft  the  milky-way  gleams  through  the  while  expanse. 

XVI. 

That  castle's  open  windows,  though  half  hid 
With  flowering  vines,  showed  many  a  vision  fair  : 
A  face  all  bloom,  or  light  young  forms  that  thrid 
Some  maze  within,  or  lonely  ones  that  wear 
The  garb  of  joy  with  sorrow's  thoughtful  air. 
Oft  caught  the  eye  a  moment ;  and  the  sound 
Of  low,  sweet  music  often  issued  there. 
And  by  its  magic  held  the  listener  bound. 
And  seemed  to  hold  the  winds  and  forests  far  around. 

XVII. 

Within,  the  Oueenof  all,  in  pomp  or  mirth. 
While  glad  attendants  at  her  glance  unfold 
Their  shining  wings  and  fly  through  heaven  and  earth, 
Oft  took  her  throne  of  burning  gems  and  gold, 
Adorned  with  emblems  that  of  empire  told, 
And  rising  in  the  midst  of  trophies  bright. 
That  bring  her  memory  from  the  days  of  old, 
And  help  prolong  her  reign,  and  with  the  flight 
Of  every  year  increase  the  wonders  of  her  might. 

XVIII. 

In  all  her  dwelling,  tales  of  wild  romance, 
Of  terror,  love,  and  mystery  dark  or  gay, 
Were  scattered  thick  to  catch  the  wandering  glance, 
And  stop  the  dreamer  on  his  unknown  way  ; 
There  too  was  every  sweet  and  lofty  lay, 
The  sacred,  classic,  and  romantic,  sung 
As  that  Enchantress  moved  in  might  or  play  ; 
And  there  was  many  a  harp  but  newly  strung. 
Yet  with  its  fearless  notes  the  whole  wide  valley  rung. 
24 


1S5 


186 


THE    RELIGION 

XIX. 

There  from  all  lands  and  ages  of  her  fame, 

Were  marble  forms,  arrayed  in  order  due, 
In  groups  and  single,  all  of  proudest  name  ; 
In  them  the  high,  the  fair,  and  tender,  grew 
To  life  intense  in  love's  impassioned  view. 
And  from  each  air  and  feature,  bend  and  swell, 
Each  shapely  neck,  and  lip,  and  forehead,  threw 
O'er  each  enamoured  sense  so  deep  a  spell. 
The  thoughts  but  with  the  past  or  bright  ideal  dwell. 

XX. 

The  walls  around  told  all  the  pencil's  power  ; 
There  proud  creations  of  each  mighty  hand 
Shone  with  their  hue&  and  lines  as  in  the  hour. 
When  the  last  touch  was  given  at  the  command 
Of  the  same  genius  that  at. first  had  planned, 
Exulting  in  its  great  and  glowing  thought : 
Bright  scenes  of  peace  and  war,  of  sea  and  land. 
Of  love  and  glory,  to  new  life  were  wrought. 
From  history,  from  fable,  and  from  nature  brought. 

XXI. 

With  these  were  others  all  divine,  drawn  all 

From  ground  where  oft,  with  signs  and  accents  dread. 
The  lonely  prophet  doomed  to  sudden  fall 
Proud  kings  and  cities,  and  with  gentle  tread 
Bore  life's  quick  triumph  to  the  humble  dead. 
And  where  strong  angels  flew  to  blast  or  save. 
Where  martyred  hosts  of  old,  and  youthful  bled, 
And  where  their  mighty  Lord  o'er  land  and  wave     [grave. 
Spread  life  and  peace  till  death,  then  spread  them  through  the 

XXII. 

-   From  these  fixed  visions  of  the  hallowed  eye. 

Some  kindling  gleams  of  their  etherial  glow. 
Would  oft  times  fall,  as  from  the  opening  sky. 
On  eyes  delighted,  glancing  to  and  fro. 
Or  fastened  till  their  orbs  dilated  grow  ; 
Then  would  the  proudest  seem  with  joy  to  learn 
Truths  they  had  feared  or  felt  ashamed  to  know  ; 
The  skeptic  would  believe,  the  lost  return  ; 
And  all  the  cold  and  low  would  seem  to  rise  and  burn. 


OF    TASTE.  187 

XXIII. 

Theirs  was  devotion  kindled  by  the  vast, 

The  beautiful,  impassioued,  and  refined  ; 
And  in  the  deep  enchantment  o'er  them  cast. 
They  looked  from  earth,  and  soared  above  their  kind 
To  the  blest  calm  of  an  abstracted  mind, 
And  its  communion  with  things  all  its  own, 
Its  forms  sublime  and  lovely  ;  as  the  blind, 
Mid  earthly  scenes,  forgotten,  or  unknown. 
Live  in  ideal  worlds,  and  wander  there  alone. 

XXIV. 

Such  were  the  lone  enthusiasts,  wont  to  dwell 

With  all  whom  that  Enchantress  held  subdued, 
As  in  the  holiest  circle  of  her  spell. 
Where  meaner  spirits  never  dare  intrude. 
They  dwelt  in  calm  and  silent  solitude. 
Rapt  in  the  love  of  all  the  high  and  sweet. 
In  thought,  and  art,  and  nature,  and  imbued 
AVith  its  devotion  to  life's  inmost  seat, 
As  drawn  from  all  the  charms  which  in  that  valley  meet. 

XXV. 

Of  them  and  their  religion,  though  by  creed 

Or  grave  observance  known  not.  Heaven  inspire 
My  wayward  heart  to  sing  as  Truth  shall  lead. 
And  Love,  my  lips  shall  hallow  with  her  fire, 
And  to  her  harmony  shall  tune  my  lyre  : — 
Wide  as  the  realm  of  taste  I  find  my  theme, 
And  rich  as  nature's  charms  that  never  tire ; 
'Tis  bright  or  dark  as  fancy's  changing  dream. 
Yet  pure  as  truth  and  love  in  their  united  stream. 

XXVI. 

'Tis  not  for  me,  in  weak  revenge  to  war 
With  beauty's  reign,  or  e'en  to  wish  it  leas ; 
'Tis  not  for  me,  ungratefully  to  mar 
Delight,  so  ready  and  so  rich  to  bless 
That  but  to  lift  the  eye  is  to  possess  ; 
Nor  would  I,  with  a  soul  that  ill  could  brook 
To  lose  the  sense  of  nature's  loveliness 
For  one  short  day,  bid  others  cease  to  look 
O'er  all  the  works  of  God,  content  with  his  one  book. 


188  THK     RKLICION 

XXVII. 
To  love  the  beautiful  is  not  to  hate 
The  holy,  nor  to  wander  from  the  true ; 
Else  why  in  Eden  did  its  Lord  create 
Each  green  and  shapely  tree  to  please  the  view  ? 
Why  not  enough  that  there  the  fruitful  grew  ? 
But  wherefore  think  it  virtue  pure  and  blest 
To  feast  the  eye  with  shape  and  bloom  and  hue  ? 
Or  wherefore  think  it  holier  than  the  zest 
With  which  the  purple  grape  by  panting  lips  is  prest. 

XXVIII. 

The  rose  delights  with  colour  and  with  form, 
Nor  less  with  fragrance  ;  but  to  love  the  flower 
For  either,  or  for  all,  is  not  to  warm 
The  bosom  with  the  thought  of  that  high  Power, 
Who  gathered  all  into  its  blooming  hour  : 
As  well  might  love  of  gold  be  love  to  Him, 
Who  on  the  mountain  poured  its  pristine  shower, 
And  buried  it  in  currents  deep  and  dim, 
Or  spread  it  in  bright  drops  along  the  river's  brim. 

XXIX. 

Yet  Taste  and  Virtue  are  not  born  to  strife  ; 
'Tis  when  the  earthly  would  the  heavenly  scorn. 
Nor  merely  spread  with  flowers,  her  path  to  life, 
But  would  supplant  when  bound  to  cheer  and  warn, 
Or  at  the  touch  of  every  wounding  thorn 
Would  tempt  her  from  that  path,  or  bid  her  trust 
No  truth  too  high  for  fancy  to  adorn, 
And  turn  from   all  too  humble  with  disgust ; 
'Tis  then  she  wakes  a  war,  when  in  her  pride  unjust. 

XXX. 

But  oft  in  Taste  when  mindful  of  her  birth. 
Celestial  Virtue  owns  a  mortal  friend, 
A  fit  interpreter  of  scenes  of  earth, 
And  one  delighting  thought  with  hers  to  blend 
Amid  their  loveliness,  and  prompt  to  lend 
The  light  and  charm  of  her  own  smile  to  all ; — 
Thus  when  to  heaven  our  best  afflictions  lend, 
Taste  helps  the  spirit  upward  at  the  call 
Of  Faith  and  echoing  Hope,  or  scorns  to  work  its  fall. 


OF  TASTE.  189 

XXXI. 

The  path  we  love, — to  that  all  things  allure  ; 
We  give  them  power  malignant  or  benign  ; 
Yes,  to  the  pure  in  heart  all  things  are  pure ; 
And  to  the  bright  in  fancy,  all  things  shine  ; 
All  frown  on  those  that  in  deep  sorrow  pine, 
Smile  on  the  cheerful,  lead  the  wise  abroad 
O'er  Nature's  realm  in  search  of  laws  divine  ; 
All  draw  the  earthly  down  to  their  vile  clod  ; 
And  all  unite  to  lift  the  heavenly  to  their  God. 

XXXIT. 
The  universe  is  calm  to  faith  serene  ; 
And  all  with  glory  shines  to  her  bright  eye ; 
The  mount  of  Sion,  crowned  with  living  green 
By  all  the  beams  and  dews  of  its  pure  sky, 
She  sees  o'er  clouds  and  tempests  rising  high 
From  its  one  fountain  pouring  streams  that  bear 
Fresh  life  and  beauty,  ne'er  to  fade  and  die. 
But  make  the  blasted  earth  an  aspect  wear, 
Like  that  of  its  blest  prime,  divinely  rich  and  fair. 

XXXIII. 

The  eye  which  she  has  opened,  rolls  in  light 
O'er  a  creation,  in  which  God  is  viewed. 
In  all  that  blooms  by  day  and  shines  by  night, 
Without  him  all  a  cheerless  solitude  ; 
The  heart  that  with  her  spirit  is  imbued, 
At  nature's  mingled  works  of  power  and  love 
Trembles  with  awe  and  swells  with  gratitude. 
And  pants  for  the  swift  pinions  of  a  dove, 
To  waft  the  soul  away  to  Him  who  reigns  above. 

XXXIV. 

But  while  upon  her  high  and  holy  ground 
Faith  stands  and  makes  the  universe  her  own. 
Her  votaries  with  its  splendour  to  surround. 
To  add  to  her  pure  light,  and  hers  alone, 
And  help  to  raise  them  to  her  promised  throne. 
Slaves  of  fine  sense  there  are,  that  think  to  climb, 
E'en  by  a  path  on  which  she  never  shone 
Up  nature's  lone  steps  to  a  height  sublime 
Of  triumph  o'er  the  gloom  of  sin  and  death  and  time. 


I'JO  THE    RELIGION 

XXXV. 

The  Piety  of  faith  from  nature  draws 

Her  chief  delight  where  most  of  love  appears, 
Love  in  the  round  of  its  eternal  laws, 
In  the  wide  flow  of  light  from  rolling  spheres, 
In  genial  showers,  mild  climes,  and  fruitful  years. 
In  sights  of  happy  life  and  songs  of  praise, 
In  all  the  care  that  wins  the  heart  and  cheers 
And  all  the  bounty,  like  the  sun's  full  blaze 
Pouring  its  tide  of  blessings  o'er  revolving  days. 

XXXVI. 

The  Piety  of  taste  her  pleasure  finds, 
Where  power  in  bright  pre-eminence  is  seen, 
By  tender  spirits  and  exalted  minds. 
In  all  the  grand  and  fair,  wild  and  serene, 
In  heaven's  clear  blue  and  earth's  contrasted  green, 
In  mountain-tops  and  clouds  around  them  driven. 
In  boundless  seas,  high  stars,  and  night's  pale  queen. 
In  all  the  hues  and  notes  of  morn  and  even. 
In  all  the  charms  of  earth  and  all  the  pomp  of  heaven. 

XXXVII. 

Who  boasts  the  power  of  piety,  so  weak 

In  all  its  loveliness,  whene'er  he  deigns 
The  book  of  God  to  open,  turns  to  seek 
Its  melting  histories  and  lofty  strains. 
Or  learn  what  flowers  once  filled  Judea's  plains. 
What  gems  her  mountains,  and  what  beasts  her  wood, 
What  cities  flourished  once  where  silence  reigns. 
What  deeds  were  wrought  where  monuments  have  stood. 
How  earth  from  chaos  rose,  how  rolled  beneath  her  flood. 

XXXVIII. 

As  o'er  this  field  of  poetry  he  strays. 
He  culls  what  truths  are  lovely  and  sublime, — 
Existence  with  no  first  or  last  of  days. 
And  goodness  with  no  bound  of  space  or  time. 
Souls  from  the  earth  kept  ever  in  their  prime. 
Angels  attending  men  to  virtue  dear, 
A  heaven  where  both  towards  their  Maker  climb, 
A  day  when  all  the  dead  his  voice  shall  hear 
And  o'er  a  world  made  new,  songs  burst  on  every  ear. 


OF    TASTE. 


191 


XXXIX. 

Thus  on  the  fair  in  nature,  and  the  vast, 
And  on  the  truths  revealed  that  charm  the  eye 
Of  Fancy  bright,  and  open  through  the  past 
And  future,  many  a  range  of  vision  high, 
And  wide  and  glorious  as  the  starry  sky, 
He  builds  a  proud  religion  ill  refined, 
And  from  it  hopes  of  immortality 
Draws  for  himself  and  all  of  kindred  mind. 
The  amiable  and  great  and  brilliant  of  mankind. 

XL. 

To  these  when  gone  he  gives  high  seats  among 
The  robed  in  white,  with  joys  on  earth  untold, — 
To  all  the  beautiful  among  the  young, 
And  all  the  venerable  amid  the  old. 
To  bards,  philosophers,  and  patriots  bold, — 
Sweet  rest  he  gives  them  in  ambrosial  bowers. 
With  crowns  of  amaranth  and  harps  of  gold. 
While  on  their  graves  descend  the  gentlest  showers. 
And  brightest  moonbeams  sleep  and  bloom  the  earliest  flowers. 

XLI. 

Such  in  the  pride  of  all  its  glittering  dross, 

To  truth's  revealed  eternity  so  blind. 
Is  that  religion  which  o'erlooks  the  cross, 
While  in  a  rose-bud  it  aifects  to  find. 
Or  in  a  mountain,  much  to  fill  the  mind 
With  thoughts  of  God,  and  fire  the  heart  with  love  ; 
And  yet  e'en  this,  by  genius  oft  enshrined 
In  numbers  sweet,  with  these  alone  can  move. 
Or  seem  to  move  the  heart,  or  lift  the  thoughts  above. 

XLII. 

Who  learns  to  hold  communion  with  the  God 
Of  this  material  frame,  by  gazing  o'er 
Its  beauty  near  and  vastness  far  abroad, 
While  yet  he  never  bowed  the  knee  before 
The  reigning  God  of  love  ?  What  sees  he  more 
To  fill  with  joy  or  awe  than  he  might  see. 
Had  earth  and  heaven  no  Maker  to  adore. 
Had  they  been  always,  or  begun  to  be 
Without  creating  power,  mid  shouts  of  melody. 


192 


THE    RELIGION 

XLIII. 
Grows  he  devout  from  all  the  spring's  sweet  bloom, 
Or  all  the  pride  of  summer  rich  and  gay  ? 
From  autumn's  fading  hues  and  placid  gloom, 
Or  pomp  of  winter  in  its  white  array. 
With  sunbeams  twinkling  from  each  icy  spray, 
And  meteors  shooting  thick  and  howling  storms? 
Or  from  the  lights  and  shades  of  night  and  day, 
In  cloudless  climes,  with  all  the  perfect  forms 
Of  grandeur  that  exalts,  and  loveliness  that  warms  ? 

XLIV. 

Then  wherefore  are  not  they  who  dwell  apart 
From  the  great  world,  upon  some  lofty  plain 
Amid  the  Andes,  nearest  heaven  in  heart  ? 
Why  are  not  they  whose  home  is  on  the  main, 
The  least  unmindful  of  Jehovah's  reign, 
In  calm  and  storm,  on  every  sea  and  shore  ? 
Or  why  do  men  of  creed  and  life  profane 
Return  not  after  earth  is  travelled  o'er 
And  half  its  mountains  climbed,  less  impious  than  before  ? 

XLV. 

Where  are  the  virtues  and  the  calm  delights 
Of  the  lone  cottage  'mid  embowering  trees. 
Far  from  the  worlds  tumultuous  sounds  and  sights, 
On  some  hill-side  o'erlooking  smooth  blue  seas, 
Or  in  some  vale  where  but  the  hum  of  bees. 
The  chant  of  birds,  and  the  rill's  murmur  break 
The  charmed  air's  stillness,  and  the  roughest  breeze 
Can  stir  no  more  than  into  life  just  shake 
The  green  grove's  perfect  image  in  the  glassy  lake  ? 

XLVI. 

Draw  near  ye  sons  of  romance  and  behold 
Your  boasted  calm  of  happy  virtue  gone  ; 
See  foul  intemperance  and  profaneness  bold. 
And  pride  in  rags  as  rank  as  if  in  lawn  ; 
See  all  enchantment  from  the  scene  withdrawn 
By  the  first  touch  of  truth's  celestial  ray  ; 
As  golden  dreams  all  vanish  at  the  dawn, 
So  quick  your  bright  creation  fades  away. 
And  your  etherial  beings  sink  to  things  of  clay. 


OF    TASTE. 

XLVII. 

Leave  bards  behind  and  seek  the  hermit's  cell, 

High  converse  holds  he,  in  his  solitude, 
With  angels  shedding  round  as  by  a  spell 
A  radiance  into  which  no  clouds  intrude 
From  earth,  or  earthly  passions  unsubdued  ? 
Or  musing  on  bright  skies  and  mountains  wild 
Communes  he  with  their  Maker,  till  imbued 
With  pure  and  lofty  thoughts  and  feelings  mild, 
By  error  duped  no  more,  no  more  by  sin  defiled. 

XLVIII. 

But  love  of  nature  feasted  high  and  long 
Without  controlling  faith,  while  it  inspires 
No  heavenly  flame,  oft  feeds  amid  a  throng 
Of  fancies  soft  and  wild,  far  other  fires, — 
False  feeling,  airy  hopes,  and  foul  desires. 
And  helps  to  form  an  idler  unconfined, 
Or  visionary,  whom  the  truth  soon  tires. 
Or  profligate,  or  hater  of  mankind. 
Or  all  in  one,  and  more,  a  skeptic  cold  and  blind. 

XLIX. 

All  these  was  Byron,  and  was  doubly  these 

From  his  unhallowed  genius  revelling  free 
Amid  the  charms  of  loveliest  lands  and  seas  : — 
'Twas  here  he  nursed  the  daring  liberty 
Of  dreaming  what  man  is,  and  is  to  be, 
In  spite  of  all  the  unimpassioned  prose 
Of  truth  divine,  when  with  sweet  poetry 
All  nature  lives,  luxuriates  and  glows, 
Tempting  to  pleasure  here,  leaving  to  fate  its  close. 

L. 

How  did  he  send  to  Heaven  defiance  proud. 
While  bounding  lightly  o'er  the  billowy  world. 
Or  gazing  round  him  when  the  midnight  cloud 
Its  massy  folds  o'er  Alpine  heights  unfurled, 
And  round  from  cliff  to  cliff"its  light'nings  hurled. 
With  dark  red  gleams  now  showing  wood  and  lake, 
Swept  in  broad  waves,  or  in  deep  eddies  whirled, 
Now  leaving  all  a  blank,  while  thunders  break 
In  one  redoubling  peal  and  all  the  mountains  shak©. 
25      • 


193 


^94  THE    RELIGION 

LI. 

And  when  with  all  the  elements  at  peace 
He  breathed  the  air  of  Italy's  soft  vales, 
Or  of  the  verdant  shores  and  isles  of  Greece, 
To  him  the  deities  of  classic  tales 
Seemed  to  return  to  groves  and  hills  and  dales, 
Their  former  haunts,  made  theirs  from  beauty  bright 
As  on  Arabian  plains,  by  poisonous  gales 
And  burning  suns  laid  waste,  the  skies  of  night 
With  deities  are  filled  for  their  cool  placid  light. 

LII. 

To  him  the  Cyprian  queen  resumed  her  throne 
Where  once  the  pencil,  pen,  and  chisel  vied. 
By  borrowing  nature's  charms  to  raise  her  own  ; — 
On  roses  she  must  feed  and  sleep,  must  glide 
A  form  of  light  o'er  the  cerulean  tide. 
Or  towards  her  temple  through  green  shady  groves 
With  garlands  crowned,  in  pomp  serene  must  guide 
Her  ivory  chariot  drawn  by  swans  and  doves. 
With  Graces  dancing  round  and  all  her  winged  Loves, 

LIIL 

Tis  oft  the  unhallowed  fancy  that  delights 
O'er  the  sublime  and  fair  of  earth  to  glance. 
To  wander  long  where  earth  with  heaven  unites, 
To  sail  on  smooth  wings  o'er  the  blue  expanse, 
Or  on  bright  clouds  in  a  voluptuous  trance, 
Or  soar  'mid  worlds,  above,  below,  around, 
Approaching  and  retreating  in  a  dance 
Of  light  and  harmony,  and  with  that  sound 
Of  fabled  music  sweet,  filling  the  vast  profound. 

LIV. 

From  flights  so  high,  how  quick  can  man  descend, — 

From  realms  so  bright  and  calm, — and  roll  in  dust, 
A  slave  to  passions  that  like  vultures  rend 
Ere  they  devour,  and  from  the  bosom  thrust 
All  feelings  kind  and  pure,  and  wake  mistrust 
Of  every  friend,  and  enmity  to  all 
The  good  and  happy,  from  the  cold  disgust 
Of  senses  pampered  till  their  pleasures  pall  ; 
When  at  the  world  he  murmurs,  to  revenge  his  fall. 


OF    TASTE.  196 

LV. 

Sick  of  the  world,  a  glad  farewell  he  sings 

To  all  its  living  scenes ;  and,  worse  than  vain, 

Sighs  without  meaning  for  the  dove's  light  wings. 

To  waft  him  to  some  island  of  the  main. 

Or  far-offdesert,  where  he  may  complain 

To  woods  and  waters,  fortune  may  defy. 

And  there  restored  to  nature's  boasted  reign. 

Feel  free  to  pour  contempt  on  every  tie. 

That  man  to  man  unites,  and  to  the  God  on  high. 

LVI. 

Or  weary  of  his  life,  he  madly  throws 
The  burden  down,  or  drags  it  on  in  dread 
Of  each  day's  added  weight,  while  no  repose 
He  looks  for  here,  but  longs  to  lay  his  head 
Among  the  silent  and  forgotten  dead  ; — 
And  this  is  greatness  that  the  young  betimes 
Learn  to  admire  ;  and  though  his  joys  are  fled. 
Still  in  the  fancies  from  which  sprung  his  crimes 
They  think  to  find  their  joys,  as  if  in  fairy  climes. 

LVII. 

They  seek  a  paradise  that  from  them  flies 
And  leaves  them  oft  bewildered,  like  the  band 
Of  Indian  youths,  who  searched  with  eager  eyes 
Through  Florida's  vast  swamp  for  unknown  land, 
By  hunters  praised  as  rising  with  firm  strand 
Just  in  their  utmost  need,  and  in  full  view. 
Where  waving  many  an  inviting  hand. 
The  daughters  of  the  sun  to  safety  drew. 
And  cheered  them  with  rich  fruits,  their  labours  to  renew. 

LVIII. 

But  when  with  those  immortal  ones  they  thought 
To  live  and  share  in  their  unfading  prime. 
They  saw  them  flee  ;  and  when  they  fondly  sought 
To  follow  to  their  chosen  isle,  and  climb 
Its  verdant  shores  and  cloudless  heights  sublime, 
The  waters  round  them  rose  with  threatening  roar. 
The  isle  receding  vanished  many  a  time. 
Then  re-appeared  but  distant  as  before. 
As  if  to  bid  them  go  content  and  seek  no  more. 


196  THE     KKLIGION 

LIX. 

And  thus  do  nature's  scenes  of  beauty  give 
The  spirit  rest,  when  but  an  hour  enjoyed  ; 
Life's  fainting  traveller  thus  they  oft  revive, 
They  calm  the  soul  by  earthly  cares  annoyed, 
Refine  the  sense  by  earthly  pleasures  cloyed, 
The  sad  heart  cheer,  and  ease  the  toiling  mind  ; 
But  sought  life's  ills  and  labours  to  avoid, 
They  mock  with  visions  of  delight  that  blind 
The  eyes  to  truth,  then  fly,  and  leave  despair  behind. 

LX. 

And  in  the  tender  gloom  of  that  despair 
All  vigour  dies,  all  virtue  high  and  bold, 
The  will  to  labour  and  the  strength  to  bear  ; 
And  man  becomes  a  thing  of  passive  mould, 
As  helpless  as  the  Sybarite  of  old, 
Who  on  his  bed  of  roses  could  not  rest. 
If  but  a  leaf  retained  a  single  fold  ; 
Listless  inquietude  pervades  his  breast. 
And  trifles  from  without,  each  moment's  peace  molest. 

LXL 

All  at  the  mercy  of  surrounding  things, 
A  passing  cloud  or  bird  of  thrilling  strain, 
Bears  him  away  through  wild  imaginings, 
Like  and  unlike,  combined  in  one  long  train  ; 
Or  all  resigned  to  fancy's  gloomy  reign, 
He  melts  in  reveries,  begun  from  nought, 
Prolonged  at  random  and  then  closed  in  vain, 
A  mere  delirium  of  soft  feeling  wrought, 
With  but  the  semblance  left,  of  deep,  continuous  thought. 

LXIL 

But  his  is  sickly  feeling  ill  refined. 
Nursed  in  the  luxury  of  causeless  tears, — 
Tears  that  foment  a  fever  in  the  mind, 
Yet  chill  and  harden  all  within  that  cheers 
This  mournful  life,  and  man  to  man  endears  ; 
Like  Niobe  he  weeps  himself  to  stone  ; 
Nought  now  of  others  woes  he  sees  or  hears, 
With  his  lost  hopes  his  sympathies  are  tlown, 
And  in  a  social  world,  he  lives  and  dies  alone. 


OF  TASTE. 

LXIII. 

Or  if  his  feeling  e'er  the  heart  dilate 
With  touch  of  pity  till  a  tear  be  shed, 
'Tis  more  for  trifles  than  for  things  of  weight, 
Resembling  much  the  superstitious  dread 
The  Hindoo  feels,  lest  his  incautious  tread 
Should  crush  an  insect,  while  he  views  unmoved 
The  living  mortal  burning  with  the  dead, 
A  sacrifice  by  favourite  gods  approved, 
And  by  his  listless  spirit  borne  till  it  is  loved. 

LXIV. 

Rosseau  could  weep, — yes,  with  a  heart  of  stone 

The  impious  sophist  could  recline  beside 
The  pure  and  peaceful  lake,  and  muse  alone 
On  all  its  loveliness  at  even  tide, — 
On  its  small  running  waves  in  purple  died 
Beneath  bright  clouds  or  all  the  glowing  sky, 
On  the  white  sails  that  o'er  its  bosom  glide, 
And  on  surrounding  mountains  wild  and  high 
Till  tears  unbidden  gushed  from  his  enchanted  eye. 

LXV. 

But  his  were  not  the  tears  of  feeling  fine 

Of  grief  or  love  ;  at  fancy's  flash  they  flowed. 
Like  burning  drops  from  some  proud  lonely  pine 
By  lightning  fired  ;  his  heart  with  passion  glowed 
Till  it  consumed  his  life,  and  yet  he  showed 
A  chilling  coldness  both  to  friend  and  foe. 
As  Etna,  with  its  centre  an  abode 
Of  wasting  fire,  chills  with  the  icy  snow 
Of  all  its  desert  brow  the  living  world  below. 

LXVI. 

Was  he  but  justly  wretched  from  his  crimes  ? 

Then  why  wasCowper's  anguish  oft  as  keen, 
With  all  the  heaven-born  virtue  that  sublimes 
Genius  and  feeling,  and  to  things  unseen 
Lifts  the  pure  heart  through  clouds,  that  roll  between 
The  earth  and  skies,  to  darken  human  hope  ? 
Or  wherefore  did  those  clouds  thus  intervene 
To  render  vain  faith's  lifted  telescope, 
And  leave  him  in  thick  gloom  his  weary  way  to  grope  ? 


197 


198 


THE    RELIGION 

LXVII. 

He  too  could  give  himself  to  musing  deep, 
By  the  calm  lake  at  evening  he  could  stand, 
Lonely  and  sad,  to  see  the  moon  light  sleep 
On  all  its  breast  by  not  an  insect  fanned, 
And  hear  low  voices  on  the  far-off  strand, 
Or  through  the  still  and  dewy  atmosphere 
The  pipe's  soft  tones  waked  by  some  gentle  hand, 
From  fronting  shore  and  woody  island  near 
In  echoes  quick  returned  more  mellow  and  more  clear. 

LXVIII. 

And  he  could  cherish  wild  and  mournful  dreams, 
In  the  pine  grove,  when  low  the  full  moon  fair 
Shot  under  lofty  tops  her  level  beams. 
Stretching  the  shades  of  trunks  erect  and  bare. 
In  stripes  drawn  parallel  with  order  rare, 
As  of  some  temple  vast  or  colonnade. 
While  on  green  turf  made  smooth  without  his  care 
He  wandered  o'er  its  stripes  of  light  and  shade, 
And  heard  the  dying  day-breeze  all  the  boughs  pervade. 

LXIX. 

'Twas  thus  in  nature's  bloom  and  solitude 
He  nursed  his  grief  till  nothing  could  assuage  ; 
'Twas  thus  his  tender  spirit  was  subdued, 
Till  in  life's  toils  it  could  no  more  engage  ; 
And  his  had  been  a  useless  pilgrimage, 
Had  he  been  gifted  with  no  sacred  power, 
To  send  his  thoughts  to  every  future  age  ; — 
But  he  is  gone  where  grief  will  not  devour, 
Where  beauty  will  not  fade,  and  skies  will  never  lower. 

LXX. 

To  that  bright  world  where  things  of  earth  appear 

Stript  of  false  charms,  my  fancy  often  flies, 
To  ask  him  there  what  life  is  happiest  here ; 
And  as  he  points  around  him  and  replies 
With  glowing  lips,  my  heart  within  me  dies, 
And  conscience  whispers  of  a  dreadful  bar. 
When  in  some  scene  where  every  beauty  lies, 
A  soft  sweet  pensiveness  begins  to  mar 
The  joys  of  social  life,  and  with  its  claims  to  war. 


OF    TASTE.  19y 

LXXI. 

'Twas  one  of  summer's  last  and  loveliest  days, 
When  at  the  dawn,  with  a  congenial  friend 
I  rose  to  climb  the  mount,  that  with  the  gaze 
Of  expectation  high  we  long  had  kenned, 
While  travelling  towards  it  as  our  journey's  end  : — 
Height  after  height  we  reached  that  seemed  the  last 
But  far  above,  where  we  must  yet  ascend, 
Another  and  another  rose,  till  fast 
The  sun  began  to  sink  ere  all  but  one  were  past. 

LXXII. 

Upon  that  loftiest  one  awhile  we  stood 
Silent  with  wonder  and  absorbing  awe  ; 
A  thousand  peaks,  the  lowest  crowned  with  wood, 
The  highest  of  bare  rock  at  once  we  saw. 
In  ranges  spread  till  seeming  to  withdraw 
Far  into  heaven,  and  mix  their  softer  blue  ; 
While  ranges  near,  as  if  in  spite  of  law. 
With  all  wild  shapes  and  grand  filled  up  the  view 
And  o'er  the  deep  dark  gulf  fantastic  shadows  threw. 

LXXIII. 

Here  billows  heaved  in  one  vast  swell,  and  there 
In  one  long  sweep,  as  on  a  stormy  sea, 
Drawn  to  a  curling  edge,  seemed  held  in  air, 
Ready  to  move  as  from  a  charm  set  free, 
And  roar,  and  dash,  and  sink,  and  cease  to  be  ; 
While  firm  and  smooth  as  hewn  of  emerald  rock, 
Below  them  rose  to  points  of  one  proud  tree 
Green  pyramids  of  pine,  that  seemed  to  mock 
In  conscious  safety  proud,  their  vainly  threatened  shock. 

LXXIV. 

Here  while  the  sun  yet  shone,  abysses  vast 
Like  openings  into  inner  regions  seemed 
All  objects  fading,  mingling,  sinking  fast, 
Save  few  that  shot  up  where  the  sun  yet  beamed  j 
But  soon  as  his  last  rays  around  us  streamed 
Thick  darkness  wrapt  the  whole,  o'er  which  the  glow 
Of  western  skies  in  feeble  flashes  gleamed. 
While  bright  from  pole  to  pole  extending  slow 
Along  the  wide  horizon  ere  it  sunk  below. 


200  THK  relic; lox 

LXXV. 

'Twas  midnight,  when  from  our  sequestered  hower 

I  stole  with  sleepless  eyes  to  gaze  alone  ; 
For  tis  alone  we  feel  in  its  full  power, 
The  enchantment  o'er  a  scene  so  awful  thrown  : — 
Through  broken  flying  clouds  the  moon  now  shone, 
And  light  and  shade  crossed  mountain-top  and  vale  ; 
While  with  imparted  motion,  not  their  own. 
The  heavens  and  earth  to  fancy  seemed  to  sail 
Through  boundless  space  like  her  creation  bright  but  frail. 

LXXVI. 

Ere  long  the  clouds  were  gone,  the  moon  was  set  ; 
When  deeply  blue  without  a  shade  of  gray, 
The  sky  was  filled  with  stars  that  almost  met, 
Their  points  prolonged  and  sharpened  to  one  ray  ; 
Through  their  transparent  air  the  milky-way 
Seemed  one  broad  flame  of  pure  resplendent  white. 
As  if  some  globe  on  fire,  turned  far  astray. 
Had  crossed  the  wide  arch  with  so  swift  a  flight, 
That  for  a  moment  shone  its  whole  long  track  of  light. 

LXXVII. 

At  length  in  northern  skies,  at  fiist  but  small, 

A  sheet  of  light  meteorrous  begun 

To  spread  on  either  hand,  and  rise  and  fall 

In  waves,  that  slowly  first,  then  quickly  run 

Along  its  edge,  set  thick  but  one  by  one 

With  spiry  beams,  that  all  at  once  shot  high. 

Like  those  through  vapours  from  the  setting  sun  ; 

Then  sidelong  as  before  the  wind  they  fly. 

Like  streaking  rain  from  clouds  that  flit  along  the  sky. 

LXXVIII. 

Now  all  the  mountain-tops  and  gulfs  between 

Seemed  one  dark  plain  ;  from  forests,  caves  profound 
And  rushing  waters  far  below  unseen, 
Rose  a  deep  roar  in  one  united  sound. 
Alike  pervading  all  the  air  around, 
And  seeming  e'en  the  azure  dome  to  fill, 
And  from  it  through  soft  ether  to  resound 
In  low  vibrations,  sending  a  sweet  thrill 
To  every  finger's  end  from  rapture  deep  and  still. 


OF    TASTK.  201 

LXXIX. 

Spent  with  emotion,  and  to  rest  resigned, 
A  sudden  sleep  fell  on  me,  and  subdued 
With  visions  bright  and  dread  my  restless  mind  ; — 
Methought  that  in  a  realm  of  solitude, 
All  indistinctly  like  the  one  just  viewed, 
With  guilt  oppressed  and  with  foreboding  gloom, 
My  lonely  way  bewildered  I  pursued. 
Mid  signs  of  terror  that  the  day  of  doom. 
And  lovely  nature's  last  dissolving  hour  had  come. 

LXXX. 

The  sun  and  moon  in  depths  of  ether  sunk 
Till  half  extinct,  shed  their  opposing  light 
In  dismal  union,  at  which  all  things  shrunk  ; — 
Anon  they  both,  like  meteors  streaming  bright. 
Ran  down  the  sky  and  vanished — all  was  night  ; 
With  that  a  groan  as  from  earth's  centre  rose, 
While  o'er  its  surface  ran,  o'er  vale  and  height, 
A  waving  as  of  woods  when  wild  wind  blows, 
A  heaving  as  of  life  in  its  expiring  throes. 

LXXXI 

Far  in  the  broad  horizon  dimly  shone 

A  flood  of  fire,  advancing  with  a  roar, 
Like  that  of  ocean  when  the  waves  are  thrown 
In  nightly  storms  high  on  a  rocky  shore  ; — 
Spreading  each  way  it  came,  and  sweeping  o'er 
Woodlands  like  stubble,  forests  wide  and  tall 
In  thick  ranks  falling,  blooming  groves  before 
Its  fury  vanishing  too  soon  to  fall, 
And  mountains  melting  down — one  deluge  covering  all. 

LXXXII. 

Before  it,  striking  quick  from  cloud  to  cloud, 

Streamed  its  unearthly  light  along  the  sky. 
Flashing  from  all  the  swift  wings  of  a  crowd 
Of  frighted  birds  at  random  soaring  high, 
And  from  the  faces  of  lost  men  that  fly 
In  throngs  beneath,  as  back  they  snatched  a  look 
Of  horror  at  the  billows  rolling  nigh 
With  thundering  sound  at  which  all  nature  shook, 
And  e'en  the  strength  of  hope  their  sinking  hearts  forsook. 
26 


21^  THE    RELIGION 

LXXXIII.  » 

No  more  I  saw,  for  while  I  thought  to  flee 
What  seemed  the  swoon  of  terror  held  me  fast, 
My  senses  drowned,  and  set  my  fancy  free, 
Waked  not,  but  back  to  sleep  unconscious  cast 
My  troubled  spirit  ;  one  dark  moment  passed. 
And,  all  revived  again,  my  dream  went  on  ; 
But  in  that  interval  what  changes  vast ! 
The  earth  and  its  lost  multitudes  were  gone ; 
A  new  creation  blessed  eternity's  bright  dawn. 

LXXXIV. 

Myself  I  found  borne  to  a  heavenly  clime 

I  knew  not  how,  but  felt  a  stranger  there  ; 
Still  the  same  being  that  I  was  in  time, 
E'en  to  my  raiment ;  on  the  borders  fair 
Of  that  blest  land  I  stood  in  lone  despair  ; 
Not  its  pure  beauty  and  immortal  bloom, 
Its  firmament  serene  and  balmy  air. 
Nor  all  its  glorious  beings,  broke  the  gloom 
Of  my  foreboding  thoughts,  fixed  on  some  dreadful  doom. 

LXXXV. 

There  w'alkedthe  ransomed  ones  of  earth  in  white 
As  beautifully  pure  as  new-fallen  snow. 
On  the  smooth  summit  of  some  eastern  height, 
In  the  first  rays  of  morn  that  o'er  it  flow. 
Nor  less  resplendent  than  the  richest  glow 
Of  snow-white  clouds,  with  all  their  stores  of  rain 
And  thunder  spent,  rolled  up  in  volumes  slow 
O'er  the  blue  sky  just  cleared  from  every  stain, 
Till  all  the  blaze  of  noon  they  drink  and  long  retain. 

LXXXVI. 

Safe  landed  on  these  shores,  together  hence 
That  bright  throng  took  their  way  to  where  insphered 
In  a  transparent  cloud  of  light  intense, 
With  starry  pinnacles  above  it  reared, 
A  city  vast,  the  inland  all  appeared, 
With  walls  of  azure,  green,  and  purple  stone. 
All  to  one  glassy  surface  smoothed  and  cleared. 
Reflecting  forms  of  angel  guards  that  shone 
Above  the  approaching  host  as  each  were  on  a  throne. 


or  TASTE.  203 

LXXXVII. 

And  while  that  host  moved  onward  o'er  a  plain 
Of  living  verdure,  oft  they  turned  to  greet 
Friends  th^t  on  earth  had  taught  them  heaven  to  gain  ; 
Then  hand  in  hand  they  went  with  quickened  feet  ; 
And  bright  with  immortality,  and  sweet 
With  love  etherial,  were  the  smiles  they  cast  ; 
I  only  wandered  on  with  none  to  meet 
And  call  me  dear,  while  pointing  to  the  past 
And  forward  to  the  joys  that  never  reach  their  last. 

LXXXVIII. 

I  had  not  bound  myself  by  any  ties 
To  that  blest  land  ;  none  saw  me  and  none  sought  ; 
Nor  any  shunned,  or  from  me  turned  their  eyes ; 
And  yet  such  sense  of  guilt  had  conscience  wrought, 
It  seemed  that  every  bosom's  inmost  thought 
Was  fixed  on  me  ;  when  back  as  from  their  view 
I  shrunk,  and  would  have  fled  or  shrunk  to  nought 
As  some  I  loved  and  many  that  I  knew 
Passed  on  unmindful  why  or  whither  I  withdrew. 

LXXXIX. 

Whereat  of  sad  remembrances  a  flood 
Rushed  o'er  my  spirit,  and  my  heart  beat  low 
As  with  the  heavy  gush  of  curdling  blood  : — 
Soon  left  behind,  awhile  I  followed  slow, 
Then  stopped  and  round  me  looked  my  fate  to  know, 
But  looked  in  vain  ; — no  voice  my  doom  to  tell  ; — 
No  arm  to  hurl  me  down  to  depths  of  wo  ; — 
It  seemed  that  I  was  brought  to  heaven  to  dwell 
That  conscience  might  alone  do  all  the  work  of  hell. 

XC. 

Now  came  the  thought,  the  bitter  thought  of  years 
Wasted  in  musings  sad  and  fancies  wild, 
And  in  the  visionary  hopes  and  fears 
Of  the  false  feeling  of  a  heart  beguiled 
By  nature's  strange  enchantment,  strong  and  wild  ; 
Now  with  celestial  beauty  blooming  round, 
I  stood  as  on  some  naked  waste  exiled  ; 
From  gathering  hosts  came  music's  swelling  sound 
But  deeper  in  despair  my  sinking  spirit  drowned. 


304  THE    RELIGION 

XCI. 

At  leugth  methought  a  darkness  as  of  death 

Came  slowly  o'er  me,  and  with  that  I  woke  ; 
Yet  knew  not  in  the  first  suspended  breath 
Where  I  could  be,  so  real  seemed  the  stroke 
That  in  my  dream  all  earthly  ties  had  broke ; 
A  moment  more,  and  melting  in  a  tide 
Of  grateful  fervour,  how  did  I  invoke 
Power  from  the  Highest  to  leave  all  beside, 
And  live  but  to  secure  the  bliss  ray  dream  denied. 

XCII. 

The  day  soon  dawned,  and  I  could  not  but  view 
Its  purple  tinge  in  heaven,  and  then  its  beams 
Revealing  all  around  me,  as  they  flew 
From  peak  to  peak,  and  striking  in  soft  gleams 
On  the  white  mists  that  hung  o'er  winding  streams 
Through  trackless  forests,  and  o'er  clustering  lakes 
In  vallies  wide,  where  many  a  green  height  seems 
An  isle  above  the  cloud  that  round  it  breaks. 
As  with  the  breeze  it  moves  and  its  deep  bed  forsakes. 

XCIII. 

Yet  all  was  viewed  with  calm  and  thoughtful  joy. 
As  but  reminding  me  that  earth  was  still 
My  bright  abode  of  hope,  to  high  employ 
Inviting  me  through  all  its  good  and  ill. 
Its  smiles  to  flatter  and  its  frowns  to  chill  :~ 
The  one  dread  thought  of  an  hereafter  reigned 
Within  me,  followed  me,  nor  ceased  to  fill 
My  heart  and  soul  through  days  of  peace  unfeigned, — 
Would  Heaven  that  till  this  hour  its  freshness  had  remained. 

XCIV. 

With  thoughts  sublimed  and  yet  chastised  by  truth, 
'Tis  sweet  to  see  from  our  maturer  years 
How  vain  the  fond  imaginings  of  youth, — 
'Tis  sweet  to  see,  while  faith  the  bosom  cheers. 
The  withering  of  the  flowers  that  fancy  rears. 
The  fading  of  her  visions  once  so  bright. 
And  when  her  bubbles  burst,  to  smile  in  tears 
That  we  could  trust  so  much  in  things  so  light. 
So  sure  to  lead  astray  and  then  to  take  their  flight. 


OF    TASTE.  205 

xcv. 

A  bright  or  dark  eternity  in  view, 
With  all  its  fixed  unutterable  things, 
What  madness  in  the  living  to  pursue, 
As  their  chief  portion,  with  the  speed  of  wings 
The  joys  that  death-beds  always  turn  to  stings  ! 
Infatuated  man,  on  earth's  smooth  waste 
To  dance  along  the  path  that  always  brings 
Cluick  to  an  end,  from  which  with  tenfold  haste 

Back  would  he  gladly  fly  till  all  should  be  retraced  ! 

XCVI. 

Our  life  is  like  the  hurrying  on  the  eve 

Before  we  start  on  some  long  journey  bound, 
When  fit  preparing  to  the  last  we  leave, 
Then  run  to  every  room  the  dwelling  round. 
And  sigh  that  nothing  needed  can  be  found  ; 
Yet  go  we  must,  and  soon^as  day  shall  break  ; 
We  snatch  an  hour's  repose,  when  loud  the  sound 
For  our  departure  calls  ;  we  rise  and  take 
A  quick  and  sad  farewell,  and  go  ere  well  awake. 

XCVII. 

Reared  in  the  sunshine,  blasted  by  the  storms, 

Of  changing  time,  scarce  asking  why  or  whence, 
Men  come  and  go  like  vegetable  forms. 
Though  heaven  appoints  for  them  a  work  immense, 
Demanding  constant  thought  and  zeal  intense, 
Awaked  by  hopes  and  fears  that  leave  no  room 
For  rest  to  mortals  in  the  dread  suspense. 
While  yet  they  know  not  if  beyond  the  tomb 
A  long,  long  life  of  bliss  or  wo  shall  be  their  doom. 

XCVIII. 
What  matter  whether  pain  or  pleasures  fill 
The  swelling  heart  one  little  moment  here  ? 
From  both  alike  how  vain  is  every  thrill 
While  an  untried  eternity  is  near  ! 
Tiiink  not  of  rest,  fond  man,  in  life's  career  ; 
The  joys  and  grief  that  meet  thee,  dash  aside 
Like  bubbles,  and  thy  bark  right  onward  steer 
Through  calm  and  tempest  till  it  cross  the  tide, 
Shoot  into  port  in  triumph,  or  serenely  glide. 


206 


THE    RELIGION 
XCIX. 

And  thou  to  whom  long  worshipped  nature  lends 
No  strength  to  fly  from  grief  or  bear  its  weight, 
Stop  not  to  rail  at  foes  or  fickle  friends, 
Nor  set  the  world  at  nought,  nor  spurn  at  fate  ; 
None  seek  thy  misery,  none  thy  being  hate  ; 
Break  from  thy  former  self,  thy  life  begin  ; 
Do  thou  the  good  thy  thoughts  oft  meditate, 
And  thou  shalt  feel  the  good  man's  peace  within, 
And  at  thy  dying  day  his  wreath  of  glory  win. 

C. 

With  deeds  of  virtue  to  embalm  his  name 

He  dies  in  triumph  or  serene  delight  ; 
Weaker  and  weaker  grows  his  mortal  frame 
At  every  breath,  but  in  immortal  might 
His  spirit  grows,  preparing  for  its  flight ; 
The  world  recedes  and  fades  like  clouds  of  even. 
But  heaven  comes  nearer  fast,  and  grows  more  bright, 
All  intervening  mists  far  oft'  are  driven  ; — 
The  world  will  vanish  soon,  and  all  will  soon  be  heaven. 

CI. 

Wouldst  thou  from  sorrow  find  a  sweet  relief  ? 

Or  is  thy  heart  oppressed  with  woes  untold  ? 
Balm  wouldst  thou  gather  for  corroding  grief  ? 
Pour  blessings  round  thee  like  a  shower  of  gold  ; 
'Tis  when  the  rose  is  wrapt  in  many  a  fold 
Close  to  its  heart,  the  worm  is  wasting  there 
Its  life  and  beauty  ;  not,  when  all  unrolled, 
Leaf  after  leaf  its  bosom  rich  and  fair 
Breathes  freely  its  perfumes  throughout  the  ambient  air. 

CII. 

Wake  thou  that  sleepest  in  enchanted  bowers. 
Lest  these  lost  years  should  haunt  thee  on  the  night 
When  death  is  waiting  for  thy  numbered  hours 
To  take  take  their  swift  and  everlasting  flight ; 
Wake  ere  the  earth-born  charm  unnerve  thee  quite, 
And  be  thy  thoughts  to  work  divine  addressed  ; 
Do  something — do  it  soon — with  all  thy  might ; 
An  angel's  wing  would  droop  if  long  at  rest, 
And  God  himself  inactive  were  no  longer  blest. 


OF    TASTK.  207 

cm. 

Some  high  or  humble  enterprise  of  good 
Contemplate  till  it  shall  possess  thy  mind, 
Become  thy  study,  pastime,  rest,  and  food, 
And  kindle  in  thy  heart  a  flame  refined  ; 
Pray  Heaven  for  firmness  thy  whole  soul  to  bind 
To  this  thy  purpose — to  begin,  pursue. 
With  thoughts  all  fixed  and  feelings  purely  kind, 
Strength  to  complete,  and  with  delight  review. 
And  grace  to  give  the  praise  where  all  is  ever  due. 

CIV. 

No  good  of  worth  sublime  will  heaven  permit 
To  light  on  man  as  from  the  passing  air  ; 
The  lamp  of  genius  though  by  nature  lit, 
If  not  protected,  pruned,  and  fed  with  care, 
Soon  dies  or  runs  to  waste  with  fitful  glare, 
And  learning  is  a  plant  that  spreads  and  towers 
Slow  as  Columbia's  aloe,  proudly  rare, 
That  'mid  gay  thousands  with  the  suns  and  shower.s 
Of  half  a  century,  grows  alone  before  it  flowers. 

CV. 

Has  immortality  of  name  been  given 
To  them  that  idly  worship  hills  and  groves. 
And  burn  sweet  incense  to  the  queen  of  heaven  ? 
Did  Newton  learn  from  fancy  as  it  roves, 
To  measure  worlds  and  follow  where  each  moves  1 
Did  Howard  gain  renown  that  shall  not  cease. 
By  wanderings  wild  that  nature's  pilgrim  loves  ? 
Or  did  Paul  gain  heaven's  glory  and  its  peace 
By  musing  o'er  the  bright  and  tranquil  isles  of  Greece  ? 

CVI. 

Beware  lest  thou  from  sloth,  that  would  appear 
But  lowliness  of  mind,  with  joy  proclaim 
Thy  want  of  worth  ;  a  charge  thou  couldst  not  hear 
From  other  lips,  without  a  blush  of  shame. 
Or  pride  indignant  ;  then  be  thine  the  blame, 
And  make  thyself  of  worth  ;  and  thus  enlist 
The  smiles  of  all  the  good,  the  dear  to  fame  ; 
'Tis  infamy  to  die  and  not  be  missed. 
Or  let  all  soon  forget  that  thou  didst  e'er  exist. 


208 


THE    RELIGION    OF    TASTE. 
CVII. 

Rouse  to  some  work  of  high  and  holy  love, 
And  thou  an  angel's  happiness  shall  know, — 
Shalt  bless  the  earth  while  in  the  world  above, 
The  good  begun  by  thee  shall  onward  flow 
In  many  a  branching  stream,  and  wider  grow  ; 
The  seed  that  in  these  few  and  fleeting  hours. 
Thy  hands  unsparing  and  unwearied  sow, 
Shall  deck  thy  grave,  with  amaranthine  flowers, 
And  yield  thee  fruits  divine  in  heaven's  immortal  bowers. 


SERMONS. 


SERMON  L 


I.  PETER,  iv.  11. 


"  If  any  man  speak,  let  him  speak  as  the  oracles  of  God  ;  if  any  man  minister, 
let  him  do  it  as  of  the  ability  which  God  giveth  ;  that  God  in  all  things  may  be 
glorified,  through  Jesus  Christ ;  to  whom  be  praise  and  dominion  forever  and 
ever.    Amen." 

The  repetition  of  the  name  of  the  Divine  Being  in  this 
passage  naturally  renders  the  idea  of  him  the  prominent  one. 
It  calls  the  mind  to  him  again  and  again,  and  fixes  it  on  him 
more  closely  at  every  step  in  the  course  of  thought.  The 
apostle  looks  in  one  direction,  and  here  his  view^  terminates 
in  God ;  he  looks  in  another  direction,  and  there  his  view^  ter- 
minates in  God ;  he  looks  in  another  direction  still,  and  there, 
too,  his  view  terminates  in  God.  On  every  side  he  beholds 
the  incomprehensible  and  glorious  Being,  of  vi^hom,  and 
through  whom,  and  to  whom  are  all  things,  and  who  is  God 
over  all,  blessed  forever. 

It  must  be  apparent  to  the  attentive  reader,  that  the  thought 
of  God  as  the  moral  Governor  of  men,  as  their  Redeemer, 
and  their  Judge,  had  been  taking  a  stronger  and  stronger  hold 
of  the  apostle's  mind,  and  exciting  in  it  an  increasing  interest, 
for  some  time  before  he  uttered  the  words  of  the  text. 
He  begins  the  chapter  in  which  the  text  is  found,  by  exhort- 
ing his  brethren  to  depart  from  all  iniquity  after  the  example 
of  Christ,  and  live  the  rest  of  their  days  not  to  the  lusts  of 
men,  but  to  the  will  of  God.  He  proceeds  to  observe,  that 
they  had  already  spent  enough  of  life  without  God  in  the 

Note. — This  Sermon  was  preached  the  first  Sabbath  after  his  ordination. 


212  SERMON   I. 

world, — in  the  condition  of  heathen,  who  for  their  abomina- 
ble idolatries  and  excess  of  riot  were  to  give  an  account  to 
Him  who  was  ready  to  judge  the  quick  and  the  dead.  He 
exhorts  them  to  live  thenceforth  accorduig  to  God  in  the 
spirit.  In  view  of  the  solemn  trutli  that  the  end  of  all  things 
was  at  hand,  when  they  too  must  stand  before  the  Judge  of 
the  whole  earth,  he  exhorts  them  to  the  performance  of  the 
various  duties  of  devotion  and  benevolence.  After  enumera- 
ting some  of  these  duties,  he  observes  in  a  summary  way,  "As 
every  man  hath  received  the  gift,  even  so  minister  the  same 
one  to  another,  as  good  stewards  of  the  manifold  grace  of 
God."  Having  given  this  general  direction,  he  next  confines 
his  attention  to  that  particular  class  of  men  called  to  be 
preachers  and  pastors,  and  adds,  while  the  thought  of  the  Su- 
preme Being  has  full  possession  of  his  soul,  "  If  any  man 
speak,  let  him  speak  as  the  oracles  of  God ;  if  any  man  minis- 
ter, let  him  do  it  as  of  the  ability  which  God  giveth ;  that  God 
in  all  things  may  be  glorified,  through  Jesus  Christ ;  to  whom 
be  praise  and  dominion  forever  and  ever.    Amen." 

In  making  the  passage  before  us  the  theme  of  the  present 
discourse,  permit  me  to  call  your  attention  to  the  three  gener- 
al divisions  of  thought,  as  containing  the  substance  of  what 
appears  to  my  mind  the  most  proper  to  be  said  on  this  inter- 
esting occasion. 

I.  Let  the  minister  of  God  preach  the  truth  of  God — "  as 
the  oracles  of  God." 

The  oracles  of  God  are  the  writings  given  by  inspiration  of 
God, — making  known  to  us  the  perfections  of  his  whole  char- 
acter, and  the  principles  of  his  universal  government, — and 
also  the  pai'ticular  requirements  of  his  law,  the  original  holi- 
ness and  subsequent  apostacy  of  mankind,  the  wonders  of 
Christ's  redemption,  and  the  rewards  and  punishments  of  an 
eternal  world.  When  we  would  learn  what  the  truth  is  on 
these  subjects,  or  on  any  connected  with  them,  we  have  only 
to  consult  the  oracles  of  God,  and  we  shall  hear  the  response 
of  Him,  who  cannot  err  from  ignorance  or  inclination.  If 
we  would  know  what  the  character  of  the  Supreme  Being  is. 


SERMON  I.  213 

in  relation  to  the  universe  for  which  he  acts,  the  answer  of 
his  oracles  to  our  inquiry  is,  "God  is  love."  If  we  inquire 
what  he  is  to  the  earth  under  its  particular  dispensation,  the 
answer  is,  "He  is  the  Lord  God,  merciful  and  gracious,  long- 
suflering,  and  abundant  in  goodness  and  truth."  If  it  be  ask- 
ed further,  what  he  is  to  the  penitent  and  believing  of  the 
human  family,  it  is  answered,  "He  is  a  strong  tower  into 
which  they  may  run  and  be  safe."  And  if  it  be  asked  further 
still,  what  he  is  to  the  impenitent  and  unbelieving,  it  is  answer- 
ed, "  He  is  a  consuming  fire."  Answers  as  direct  are  given 
to  inquiries  after  the  truth,  on  the  other  doctrines  just  enu- 
merated, as  lying  at  the  foundation  of  the  religion  of  the 
bible.  There  is  also  another  class  of  doctrines,  less  general, 
but  equally  fundamental  in  the  Gospel  as  a  system  for  the  illus- 
tration of  God's  glory  by  the  recovery  of  fallen  man ;  and  on 
these  the  language  of  the  divine  oracles  is  no  less  full  and  defi- 
nite. Among  these  are  to  be  reckoned  the  supreme  divinity 
of  the  Father,  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  entire 
depravity  of  all  men  by  nature,  the  atonement  of  Christ,  re- 
generation by  the  Spirit,  and  justification  by  faith.  If  these 
are  not  fundamental  doctrines  of  Christianity,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  show  that  there  are  any  sufficiently  peculiar  and 
important  to  deserve  the  name.  But  if  they  are  such,  no 
man  can  be  a  faithful  minister  of  Christ,  without  making  them 
the  great  subjects  of  his  preaching.  Can  a  man  be  said  to 
preach  the  Gospel,  when  he  opposes  or  overlooks  the  essen- 
tial principles  of  the  Gospel?  Could  a  prophet  of  Moham- 
med be  said  to  teach  the  religion  of  his  master,  if  he  should 
be  silent  on  its  primaiy  doctrines,  and  speak  only  of  those 
that  hold  a  secondary  rank?  Some  of  you  may  feel  ready 
to  reply,  that  every  man  will  at  once  acknowledge  the  truth 
of  the  proposition,  that  the  preacher  of  the  Gospel  is  bound  to 
dwell  chiefly  on  its  most  essential  doctrines,  but  every  man 
will  claim  the  right  of  judging  for  himself  what  these  doc- 
trines are.  And  it  may  be  thought  that  this  proposition  thus 
qualified  is  too  plain  to  need  any  illustration.  It  cannot 
however  be  so  plain,  or  so  generally  believed,  as  to  be  an 


''il^  SERMON  I. 

unprofitable  subject  of  discourse  on  an  occasion  like  the  pres- 
ent. But  there  are  not  wanting  men,  who  regard  as  funda- 
mental the  doctrines  just  enumerated,  and  still  deny  the  ex- 
pediency of  preaching  them,  on  the  ground  that  they  are  too 
speculative,  or  too  mysterious,  or  too  much  suited  to  excite 
opposition,  to  produce  any  practical  benefit.  The  word  of 
God,  however,  and  the  history  of  the  church,  unite  in  testify- 
ing, that  no  preaching  is  so  useful  as  that,  in  which  these  doc- 
trines hold  the  place,  that  they  hold  in  the  Christian  system. 
Let  the  minister  of  God,  then,  in  declaring  divine  truth,  be- 
gin where  Christ  and  his  apostles  begin.  Let  him  lay  the 
foundation,  that  they  have  laid ;  and  his  superstructure  will 
be  like  theirs ;  and  like  theirs  will  be  the  success  of  his  la- 
bour, and  its  everlasting  reward. 

Let  him  exhibit  the  whole  character  of  God.  All  the  di- 
vine attributes  are  summed  up  in  benevolence  ;  but  the  be- 
nevolence of  the  infinite  Jehovah  is  often  so  represented,  as  to 
resemble  the  blind  and  partial  affection  of  love  in  a  too  indul- 
gent father.  It  is  made  to  consist  almost  entirely  in  a  weak 
and  indiscriminate  mercy,  with  which  the  holy  and  exalted 
attribute  of  justice  cannot  unite.  From  such  a  view  of  the 
benevolence  of  God,  springs  the  doctrine  of  the  unconditional 
salvation  of  all  mankind.  And  it  would  be  easy  to  show,  that 
every  great  error  in  religion,  may  be  traced  back  to  some  in- 
correct view  of  the  divine  character  as  its  source.  So  true 
is  this,  that  the  ideas  which  any  particular  sect  entertain,  re- 
specting the  attributes  of  God,  may  be  known  from  those 
which  they  entertain  respecting  other  parts  of  the  system  of 
revealed  truth  ;  and  the  opinions,  which  they  hold  in  regard 
to  these  subordinate  parts,  may  be  learnt  from  those  which 
they  hold  in  regard  to  the  primary  subject,  the  divine  charac- 
ter. Show  me  what  a  man  believes  respecting  the  Supreme 
Being,  and  I  will  show  you  the  leading  articles  in  the  rest  of 
his  creed.  All  the  false  systems  of  religion  in  the  world  pro- 
ceed from  false  conceptions  of  the  character  of  God  ; — con- 
ceptions generated  in  a  vain  imagination,  under  the  govern- 
ment of  a  depraved  heart.     Christianity  is  the  only  true  reli- 


SERMON    I.  215 

gion,  because  it  is  the  only  one,  which  exhibits  God  in  his 
true  character,  as  that  character  appears  by  the  hght  of  na- 
ture, and  on  the  principles  of  right  reason.  If  then  it  be  im- 
portant that  men  should  glorify  the  Author  of  Christianity  by 
performing  its  duties  and  enjoying  its  blessings,  just  so  im- 
portant is  it,  that  all  his  perfections  should  be  held  up  to  view, 
as  objects  of  faith,  and  motives  of  conduct.  When  men  would 
lead  others  into  error  and  sin,T;hey  commence  and  finish  the 
work,  by  robbing  God  of  some  dreaded  attribute,  as  Satan 
did  in  tempting  Eve.  And  when  prophets  and  apostles  wish- 
ed to  lead  men  into  the  way  of  truth  and  holiness,  they  were 
careful  above  all  things  to  bring  to  view  the  true  character 
of  God.  Thus  Moses,  when  he  would  leave  to  the  children 
of  Israel  a  legacy  of  instructions,  to  keep  them  from  being  de- 
filed with  the  abominations  of  the  Canaanites,  dwelt  much  on 
the  perfections  of  Jehovah,  and  set  liim  before  their  eyes  ;  and 
this  he  was  well  prepared  to  do,  after  having  himself  lived  so 
long  as  seeing  him  who  is  invisible,  and  conversed  with  him 
so  often  amid  the  manifestations  of  his  glory,  and  witnessed 
so  many  of  the  wonders  of  his  mercy  and  his  righteousness. 
His  constant  language  to  them  is — "  The  Lord  our  God  is 
long-suffering,  and  of  great  mercy,  but  will  by  no  means  clear 
the  guilty  ;  he  is  a  holy  and  a  jealous  God, — a  God  of  truth, 
and  without  iniquity,  just  and  right  is  he."  To  exhibit  the 
real  character  of  God  in  this  manner,  is  not  only  the  surest 
way  to  guard  his  people  from  transgression  ;  it  is  also  the 
most  effectual  means  of  bringing  them  to  repentance  after 
they  have  transgressed.  It  was  at  the  sight  of  the  High  and 
Holy  One,  that  Job  uttered  the  confession,  "  I  abhor  myself 
and  repent  in  dust  and  ashes," — and  David  made  the  ac- 
knowledgment, "  Against  thee,  thee  only  have  I  sinned," — 
and  Isaiah  exclaimed,  "  Wo  is  me,  for  I  am  undone,  for  I  am 
a  man  of  unclean  hps."  If  sinners  are  to  be  convinced  of 
their  iniquities,  or  saints  to  be  comforted  in  their  afflictions, 
orboth  are  to  be  excited  to  the  immediate  performance  of 
the  va,rious  duties  of  religion,  what  can  be  done  by  the  preach- 
er.of  the  Gospel  with  so  much  hope  of  success,  as  to  place 


216 


SERMON    I. 


distinctly  before  them  the  whole  character  of  the  infinite 
God? 

But   let  not  the  preacher  stop   here  ;  let  him  exhibit  the 
whole  law  of  God.     Indeed  he  must  do  this,  in  order  to  bring 
to  view  the  whole  of  the  divine  character  ;  for  if  God  be  not 
represented  as  our  moral  Governor,  the  most  important  part 
of  his  character  is  left  out  of  sight ;  and  he  cannot  be  faith- 
fully represented  as  our  moral  Governor,  unless  his  laws  are 
fully  exhibited.     God  is  himself  brought  to  view  when  his 
laws  are.     That  men  are  set  free  from  their  obligation  to 
love  God  with  all  the  heart  and  their  neighbours  as  them- 
selves, by  the  coming  of  Christ,  is  the  most  preposterous  of 
religious  opinions.     God  cannot  thus  renounce  his  claims  to 
our  best  affections,  without  ceasing  to  be  worthy  of  them  ;  and 
Christ  cannot  annul  or  lessen  these  claims,  without  becoming 
the   minister  of  sin  ;    and  raising  the  standard  of  rebellion 
against  the  government  of  Jehovah.      The  redemption  of 
Christ  was  as  much  the  ground   of  justification  before  his 
death  as  it  is  since  ;  and  the  law  of  God  is  as  much  the  rule 
of  duty  since  that  event  as  it  was  before.     There  is  as  much 
of  law  in  the  New  Testament  as  in  the  Old.     God  sits  on  the 
same  high  and  holy  throne,  and  guards  the   honour  of  his 
name,  and  the  interests  of  his  kingdom  by  the  same  moral  re- 
quirements, enforced  by  the  same   eternal  sanctions.     It  is 
the  practice  of  some  men,  to  call  the  faithful  exhibition  of 
the  divine  law  legal  preaching,  in  order  to  bring  it  into  con- 
tempt ;  and  it  is  done  with  the  groundless  insinuation,  that 
the  peculiarities  of  the  Gospel  as  a  dispensation  of  mercy,  are 
thus  overlooked.  ^  Such  preaching  they  regard  as  dangerous-; 
or  at  least  they  think  that  there   is  some'danger  of  there  be- 
ing too  much  of  it.     None  at  all,  my  hearers.     By  the  law 
is  the  knowledge  of  sin.     And  can  there  be  too 'much  of  that 
preaching,  by  which  men  are  brought  to  the  knowledge  of 
their  sins  ?  If  by  legal   preaching  were  meant  that,  in  which 
heaven  is  promised  to  men,  on  condition  of  their  performing 
any  kind  or  any  number  of  heartless  ceremonies,  it  would  be 
necessaiy  to  do  more  than  acknowledge,  that  a  great  degree 


SERMON  I.  217 

of  it  must  be  dangerous  ;  it  would  be  necessary  to  show,  tbat 
the  least  would  be  highly  criminal  and  ruinous.  This,  how- 
ever, would  not  be"'preaching  the  law  of  God,  but  the  device 
of  a  vain  imagination.  Christ  exhibited  the  various  require- 
ments of  that  law,  at  the  same  time  that  he  uttered  so  many 
woes  against  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees,  for  their  hypocritical 
self-righteousness.  And  his  apostles  repeated  these  require- 
ments, while  they  ceased  not  to  declare  to  Jew  and  Gentile, 
that  works  without  faith  and  love  would  profit  them  nothing. 
Let  the  preacher,  therefore,  who  would  be  found  following 
their  example,  shun  not  to  exhibit  the  whole  law  of  God.  Let 
him  exhibit  those  requirements,  which  relate  to  the  state  of 
the  heart  towards  God  and  towards  man,  and  those  which  re- 
late to  the  conduct.  Let  him  exhibit  those  which  relate  to 
time,  and  those  which  relate  to  eternity.  Let  him  thus  bring 
to  view  the  whole  law  in  its  length  and  breadth  ;  and  pro- 
claim it  holy,  just,  and  good,  in  its  immutable  strictness,  and 
with  its  dreadful  penalty.  Let  him  treat  his  hearers  as  moral 
agents,  and  accountable  subjects  of  the  divine  government, 
by  presenting  to  them  their  obligations  to  obey  the  divine 
commands,  and  calling  upon  them  to  do  it  without  the  delay 
of  a  single  moment. 

In  connexion  with  the  law  of  God,  let  him  faithfully  ex- 
hibit the  whole  gospel.  Let  him  point  out  the  boundaries  of 
each,  and  show  where  they  are  the  same,  and  where  they  are 
not.  Let  him  not  proclaim  the  glad  tidings  of  salvation,  to 
such  as  refuse  to  love  God  according  to  his  command ;  nor 
let  him  apply  the  promise  of  salvation  to  any  on  the  ground 
of  their  renouncing  this  enmity.  Christ  must  be  brought  to 
view  as  the  end  of  the  law  for  righteousness  to  every  one 
that  believeth.  And  who  is  so  well  qualified  to  do  this,  as  the 
man  that  is  accustomed  to  represent  the  kw  in  such  a  man- 
ner, as  to  make  the  transgressor  despair  of  receiving  from  it 
any  other  sentence,  but  that  of  utter  condemnation  ?  Who 
can  publish  the  proffers  of  mercy  from  Mount  Sion,  with 
such  a   feeling  of  their  worth,  as  he  who  has  been  wont  to 

tremble  himself,  and  to  make  his  hearers  tremble,  at  the  thuu* 

28 


218  SERMOiV  I. 

ders  of  Sinai  ?  Will  not  he,  who  has  the  highest  conceptions 
of  the  excellence  of  God's  law,  dwell  with  most  delight  on 
the  wonders  of  redeeming  love  ?  Will  he  not  be  the  most  in 
earnest  in  the  work  of  winning  souls  to  Christ  ?  And  will  he 
not  be  the  most  successful  1  The  terms  of  pardon,  proposed 
in  the  gospel,  will  surely  come  from  his  lips  with  a  striking 
propriety,  and  with  a  fulness  of  meaning.  So  will  all  the 
doctrines  and  precepts,  the  promises  and  threatenings,  pecul- 
iar to  the  plan  of  salvation,  revealed  in  the  gospel.  And, 
when  the  whole  gospel  is  thus  preached,  the  Spirit  of  God 
that  giveth  success  will  attend  it. 

The  preacher,  that  in  the  manner  now  described,  exhibits 
the  whole  of  God's  character,  of  his  law,  and  of  his  gospel,  is 
one  that  preaches  as  the  oracles  of  God.  The  great  system 
of  divine  truth  is  his  theme  ;  and  the  divine  blessing  will  be 
his  reward. 

II.  Let  the  minister  of  God  labour  in  the  strength  of  God — 
♦*  as  of  the  ability  which  God  giveth." 

It  is  evident  that  the  ability  here  spoken  of  as  coming  from 
God,  is  something  more  than  the  ordinary  exercise  of  those 
natural  powers,  which  are  created  and  preserved  by  him,  and 
which  are  essentially  the  same  in  all  men.  If  it  were  not, 
there  would  be  no  more  propriety  in  applying  to  ministers 
the  direction  here  given,  than  there  would  be  in  applying  it 
to  men  engaged  in  any  other  lawful  employment ;  or,  rather, 
there  would  be  no  propriety  in  applying  it  to  any,  as  men  do 
not  need  to  be  told,  that  the  labour  of  their  various  occupa- 
tions must  be  performed,  in  the  use  of  those  faculties,  which 
they  have  received  from  their  Creator.  How  else  could 
they  be  performed  ?  This  direction  might,  perhaps,  be  ad- 
dressed to  mankind  indiscriminately,  if  the  object  were  to  call 
their  attention  to  the  fact  that  their  powers  of  body  and  mind 
are  the  gift  of  God,  and  should  therefore  be  emjjloyed  with  a 
proper  reference  to  this  fact.  But  this  cannot  be  the  partic- 
ular object  in  the  text ;  or,  at  least,  such  a  meaning  cannot 
be  all  that  is  here  intended  in  the  direction,  since  it  is  ad- 
dressed to  ministers,  as  a  class  of  men,  set  apart  to  a  work 


SERMON  I.  219 

of  divine  appointment.  Their  ability  to  perform  the  duties  of 
their  sacred  caUing,  would  not  be  so  particularly  spoken  of  as 
the  gift  of  God,  if  it  were  nothing  more  than  what  is  received 
from  him  by  all  men,  in  their  various  employments,  both  law- 
ful and  unlawful.  But  it  will  be  said^jljiat  if  the  ability  hex^^  --. 
mentioned  be  anything  more  than  this,  it  must^  a-miracuA 
lous  gift  peculiar  to  the  age.  That  it  does  not,  however,;  re- 
late exclusively  to  any  miraculous  power,  is  evident  from  the 
mode  of  expression,  considered  in  connexion  with  the  fact,  that 
such  a  power  was  not  given  to  all  the  ministers  of  that  age. 
It  is  said,  "  If  any  man  minister,  let  him  do  it  as  of  the  ability 
which  God  giveth." 

From  these  remarks  it  seems  now  to  follow,  that  the  ability 
in  question  must  be  something  between  natural  powers  and 
those  that  are  miraculous  ; — some  divine  gift,  neither  so  com- 
mon as  the  former,  nor  so  extraordinary  as  the  latter.  And 
what  can  this  be,  but  those  enlightening,  and  sanctifying,  and 
comforting  influences  of  the  Spirit,  for  which  we  are  so  abun- 
dantly taught  to  pray.  Here  let  it  be  observed,  that  the  fact 
that  we  are  taught  to  pray  for  these  influences,  proves  that 
they  have  an  actual  existence.  It  proves,  likewise,  that  they 
are  not  the  miraculous  powers,  peculiar  to  any  past  age ;  else 
the  men  of  the  present  generation  would  not  be  taught  to 
pray  for  them.  And  it  proves  further,  that  they  are  not  the 
natural  powers  of  a  living  and  intelligent  being;  else  men 
would  be  taught  only  to  give  thanks  for  them,  as  blessings  al- 
ready possessed. 

The  existence  of  such  divine  influence,  as  that  now  refer- 
red to,  cannot  be  denied  by  any  but  those  who  govern  their 
theology  by  their  philosophy ;  and  these,  to  be  consistent, 
must  take  the  ground  of  infidels,  and  go  to  the  length  of  deny- 
ing the  inspiration  of  the  scriptures.  For  if  God  could  take 
such  possession  of  the  minds  of  men,  and  so  move  them  as  to 
make  their  thoughts  and  words  properly  his  own,  he  can  cer- 
tainly exercise  over  them  the  less  extraordinary  influence  in 
question.  And  if  he  could  exercise  the  former,  without  in- 
terrupting the  use  of  their  natural  faculties,  he  can  the  latter. 


220  SERMON  r. 

And  what  is  there  opposed  to  the  principles  of  a  sound  philos*- 
ophy,  in  the  opinion  that  the  Creator  of  the  human  soul  can 
gain  access  to  its  secret  chambers,  and  govern  its  thoughts 
and  affections  I  What  if  philosophy  cannot  discover  the  mart- 
ner,  in  whidi  the  infinite  Spirit  holds  communion  with  crea- 
ted minds  ;  can  she  discover  enough  to  disprove  the  fact  ?  Or 
can  it  be  disproved  by  the  consideration,  that  enthusiasts  of 
different  religious  creeds,  profess  to  be  taught  by  the  Holy 
Spirit,  to  believe  things  and  to  do  things,  directly  opposed  to 
each  other  ?  If  it  be  asked,  how  we  may  know  in  such  a  case, 
what  comes  fi-om  God  and  what  does  not,  it  may  safely  be 
answered,  that  nothing  can  come  from  God  by  his  Spirit,  at 
variance  with  his  written  word.  And  it  may  be  added,  that 
the  design  of  the  Spirit's  influence  is  not  to  communicate 
new  truth,  but  to  move  the  mind  in  conformity  to  the  truth 
already  revealed.  It  may  also  be  added,  that  when  men  pro- 
fess to  be  led  by  this  influence,  to  adopt  a  different  interpre- 
tation of  any  passage  of  scripture,  the  question  between 
them  must  be  settled,  by  referring  it  to  the  rules  in  universal 
use  for  ascertaining  the  meaning  of  language.  To  all  this  it 
may  be  subjoined,  that  not  every  thing  which  may  be  sup- 
posed to  be  the  effect  of  the  special  operation  of  God's  Spirit, 
ought  to  be  regarded  as  such,  though  it  may  be  in  accordance 
with  his  word.  The  instruction  which  the  ignorant  and  im- 
aginative may  sometimes  derive  from  strange  dreams  and  im- 
pulses, and  from  what  they  think  to  be  unearthly  voices  and 
visions  of  supernatural  brightness,  may  agree  with  that  de- 
rived from  the  bible,  and  yet  not  be  the  result  of  a  direct 
divine  communication.  For  instance,,  a  man  may  conceive 
himself  to  be  warned  immediately  by  God  in  some  such  man- 
ner, to  forsake  some  particular  sin,  or  perform  some  particu- 
lar duty,  and  yet  be  mistaken,  though  the  sacred  oracles  be 
full  of  such  warnings,  addressed  to  persons  in  circumstances 
hke  his,  and  therefore  addressed  to  him.  On  the  other  hand, 
men  may  be  blessed  with  the  silent  and  invisible  influence  of 
the  Divine  Spirit,  though  they  are  not  at  the  time  conscious 
of  the  fact,  in  any  other  way  than  by  the  effects  produced. 


SERMON  I.  -  221 

These  remarks  respecting  the  kind  of  divine  influence,-  in- 
tended in  the  text,  have  been  thus  prolonged,  from  the  per- 
suasion, that  its  reaHty  being  once  acknowledged,  but  little 
need  be  said  to  produce  the  acknowledgment  of  its  vast  int- 
portance  to  one,  who  is  called  to  perform  the  work  of  God's 
ambassador  to  men.  If  no  room  be  left  to  doubt,  that  such  a 
divine  influence  as  that  now  described,  may  be  enjoyed,  it  can- 
not be  denied  that  the  minister  of  God  most  needs  it,  and  in 
the  largest  measure,  and  that  with  the  least  interruption. 
Who  so  much  needs  to  be  (aught  of  God,  as  the  man  who  is 
himself  set  apart  according  to  divine  appointment,  to  teach 
others  the  eternal  truth  of  God  ?  Who  so  much  needs  to  be 
sanctified  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  as  the  man  wh  o  is  ordained  to 
minister  in  holy  things  ?  Who  stands  in  such  need  of  the 
guidance  of  the  Spirit,  as  he  who  undertakes  to  direct  others 
into  the  way  of  life  ?  Who  stands  in  such  need  of  being  warn- 
ed away  from  sin  and  comforted  in  duty,  as  the  man  who  is 
to  be  a  son  of  thunder  to  the  proud  transgressor,  and  a  son  of 
consolation  to  the  humble  penitent  ?  Can  any  thing  short  of 
the  fullest  measure  of  divine  influence,  fit  a  man  to  perform 
the  various  labours  of  the  ministry,  and  endure  its  many  trials  ? 
What  but  the  constant  presence  of  the  Spirit,  to  keep  the  eye 
of  faith  fixed  on  the  realities  of  an  approaching  eternity,  can 
so  raise  him  above  the  world,  that  he  shall  not  be  tempted  to 
unfaithfulness,  by  the  love  of  its  flatteries,  or  the  dread  of  its 
censures  ?  What  but  this  can  furnish  him  with  all  that  wis- 
dom requisite  to  fit  him  rightly  to  divide  the  word  of  God, 
and  give  to  each  a  portion  in  season — a  particular  truth  for 
personal  application,  and  an  appropriate  warning  or  exhorta- 
tion ?  If  any  man  lack  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God  and  it  shall 
be  given  him. 

Let  the  minister  of  Christ  then  look  to  Heaven  for  light  in 
the  hour  of  darkness,  for  direction  in  the  midst  of  difficulty 
and  danger,  and  for  strength  in  the  time  of  weakness.  Let 
him  seek  divine  assistance  in  his  efforts  to  obtain  a  correct  un- 
derstanding of  the  sacred  oracles.  What  if  prayer  alone  will 
not  give  him  a  knowledge  of  the  general  principles  of  inter- 


222 


SERMON    I. 


pretation,  and  of  the  peculiar  idioms  of  difterent  languages  ? 
Will  it  not  in  connexion  with  other  means  afford  him  the 
most  important  aid  in  the  investigation  of  truth  ?  Will  it  not 
produce  a  disposition  to  use  these  means  faithfully,  and  ap- 
ply the  principles  of  interpretation  with  candour?  Will 
it  not  remove  pride  of  opinion,  and  prejudice  against  the 
truth ;  and  produce  a  humble,  teachable  temper  of  mind,  most 
favourable  to  its  reception  ?  Above  all,  will  it  not  secure  that 
special  assistance  of  the  Spirit,  which  is  promised  in  answer 
to  prayer?  Let  the  preacher  of  the  gospel  depend  on  God, 
to  make  him  feel  the  weight  of  truth.  After  the  knowledge 
of  it  is  obtained  to  his  satisfaction,  nothing  will  be  done  to 
any  good  purpose,  unless  he  likewise  obtains  some  just  ap- 
prehensions of  its  bearing  on  the  government  of  God,  and  on 
the  character  and  everlasting  welfare  of  men.  And  where 
but  from  the  great  Author  of  truth  shall  he  obtain  such  ap- 
prehensions ?  Let  him  trust  in  God  to  enable  him  to  declare 
the  truth  to  others  in  the  best  manner, — that  is,  the  one  most 
agreeable  to  the  divine  will,  and  consequently  best  adapted  to 
secure  the  great  end  of  preaching.  In  searching  the  oracles 
of  God,  he  is  to  inquire  not  only  what  they  teach,  but  also 
how  they  teach  it.  And  in  preaching  as  the  oracles  of  God, 
he  is  to  preach  not  only  what  they  do,  but  also  in  the  manner 
that  they  do, — that  is,  faithfully  and  affectionately,  in  simpli- 
city and  godly  sincerity,  with  great  plainness  and  seriousness. 
That  he  may  always  exhibit  divine  truth  in  this  manner,  his 
reliance  must  be  on  the  ability  which  cometh  from  God. 

in.  Let  the  minister  of  God  preach  for  the  gloiy  of  God — 
"that  God  in  all  things  may  be  glorified." 

The  glory  of  God  is  the  ultimate  end  for  which  he  himself 
acts  in  all  that  he  does.  For  this  he  created  the  heavens  with 
all  their  shining  hosts,  and  the  earth  with  all  its  inhabitants. 
For  this  he  preserves  and  governs  the  creatures  of  his  power ; 
and  for  this  he  gave  up  his  Son  to  death,  to  save  a  world  of 
immortals  ruined  by  transgression.  For  this  too  he  has  es- 
tablished the  institutions  of  the  gospel,  and  now  sends  down 
his  Spirit  to  bless  them  with  a  life-giving  power.     That  God 


SERMON    I.  228 

thus  seeks  his  own  glory,  in  all  that  he  does,  is  not  because  he 
desires  the  praises  of  his  creatures,  to  make  him  happy.  He 
seeks  it  not  from  any  thing  like  the  selfishness  of  sinful  men. 
All  selfishness  implies  opposition  to  the  general  good  ;  where- 
as God's  glory  is  not  only  consistent  with  the  general  good, 
but  likewise  results  from  it.  All  holy  beings  pursue  the  same 
ultimate  object  that  God  pursues.  The  angels  of  heaven  have 
no  private  ends  to  answer  in  the  praises  that  they  sing,  and 
in  the  ministrations  of  mercy  which  they  perform.  God  is 
all  in  all  to  them.  They  act  but  for  him  in  whom  they  live 
and  move  and  have  their  being.  Every  harp  is  strung  for 
him,  and  not  a  discordant  note  breaks  in  upon  the  harmony 
of  their  songs.  Every  wing  moves  for  him,  and  not  a  visit  is 
made  beyond  the  boundaries  of  their  happy  world,  but  to 
bring  back  some  new  honour  to  his  name. 

If  we  who  dwell  upon  the  earth  would  possess  something 
of  the  spirit  of  heaven, — if  while  here  wc  would  bear  some 
moral  resemblance  to  the  angels  of  God  and  to  God  himself, 
and  enjoy  a  good  hope  of  being  wholly  like  them  hereafter, 
then  must  we  make  it  the  great  object  of  life  to  promote  the 
divine  glory.  Men  in  every  employment  must  do  this,  and 
do  it  in  earnest.  But  the  minister  of  Christ  is  bound  to  do  it 
by  obligations  of  peculiar  weight,  arising  from  the  sacred  na- 
ture and  immeasurable  importance  of  his  work.  It  is  by  the 
preaching  of  the  gospel,  that  God  is  pleased  to  deliver  men 
from  the  bondage  of  iniquity,  and  the  chains  of  everlasting 
darkness.  God  is  glorified  when  he  is  obeyed  and  enjoyed. 
His  truth  is  honored  when  men  are  sanctified  through  its  influ- 
ence. His  grace  is  magnified  when  men  are  made  willing 
to  accept  the  blessings  of  forgiveness.  Every  new  note  of  an- 
gelic rejoicing  over  repenting  sinners  is  a  new  note  of  praise 
to  God.  Every  soul  added  to  the  family  of  the  faithful  adds 
lustre  to  the  rainbow  of  glory  round  about  the  throne  of  the 
Son  of  God.  The  infinite  God  is  glorified  in  every  triumph 
of  his  truth  over  error,  and  of  his  grace  over  sin,  and  of  his 
kingdom  over  that  of  the  great  enemy  of  all  good.  God  is 
glorified  when  the  gazing  multitude  see  that  his  truth  exerts 


224  SERMON    I- 

on  the  heart  and  the  life  of  behevers  the  lieavenly  influence 
ascribed  to  it  in  his  word ;  M'lien  they  see  that  his  grace  re- 
moves the  heaviest  burden  of  guilt  and  his  kingdom  grows  in 
extent,  and  beauty,  and  happiness,  in  the  midst  of  a  world  in 
arms  against  it.  If  then  glory  redounds  to  God  by  such 
means,  how  much  can  the  minister  of  the  gospel  do  to  pro- 
mote that  glor}\  And  is  not  his  obligation  to  be  measured 
by  his  ability  ?  Let  him  then  acknowledge  this  obligation  in 
all  its  greatness,  and  never  wish  to  throw  it  off  or  to  lessen  it 
I^et  him  do  more  than  acknowledge  it,  and  act  under  its  in- 
fluence. Let  him  delight  in  it.  Let  it  be  the  joy  of  his  heart, 
to  labour  for  the  glory  of  God,  as  well  as  in  the  cause  of  God, 
and  by  the  strength  of  God.  Never  let  it  cease  to  be  the 
great  object  of  his  labours,  that  God  in  all  things  may  be  glo- 
rified through  Jesus  Christ.  It  is  only  through  Jesus  Christ 
tliat  ministers  can  glorify  God.  It  is  only  on  account  of  what 
he  has  done,  that  they  have  the  privilege  of  doing  it,  and  only 
in  his  kingdom  of  grace  that  they  have  the  power  of  doing 
it.  God  in  Christ  must  be  the  great  theme,  the  means,  and 
the  end  of  their  preaching.  He  must  be  first,  and  midst,  and 
last.     He  must  be  all  in  all. 

From  the  view  that  has  now  been  taken  of  the  subject  be- 
fore us,  we  are  led  to  the  following  inferences. 

1,.  Ministers  of  God  are  not  at  liberty  to  preach  the  opin- 
ions of  men  in  the  place  of  divine  truth. 

Tliey  are  simply  interpreters  of  the  oracles  of  God.  They 
are  ambassadors  from  the  court  of  heaven.  They  come  not 
upon  their  own  errand.  They  are  not  sent  without  a  message  ; 
nor  are  they  sent  with  one  from  the  schools  of  ancient  or 
modern  philosophy.  The  book  containing  their  instructions  is 
put  into  their  hands ;  and  eveiy  page  is  filled  with  characters 
of  divine  light  and  love.  The  prophet  then  that  hath  a  dream 
let  him  tell  a  dream ;  and  he  that  hath  the  word  of  God,  let 
him  speak  that  word  faithfully.  What  is  the  chaff  to  the 
wheat?  saith  the  Lord.  Many  and  dreadful  are  the  woes 
denounced  against  the  prophets,  that  dare  to  go  beyond  the 
word  of  the  Lord,  or  to  stop  short  of  it,  or  to  tui-n  aside  from 


SERMON    I.  925 

it,  or  to  publish  their  own  imaginations  in  its  stead.  It  is  the 
great  business  of  the  preacher  to  hold  up  to  view  the  divine 
requirements,  and  guard  them  on  one  side  with  all  the  threat- 
enings  of  infinite  justice,  and  on  the  other  with  all  the  promises 
of  everlasting  mercy.  With  these  he  is  to  hedge  up  the  way 
of  transgressors,  and  thus  show  them  that  if  they  turn  to  the 
right  hand  or  to  the  left  from  the  path  of  life  open  before 
them,  they  must  break  over  these  barriers  of  divine  benevo- 
lence, and  must  do  it  with  their  eyes  open  on  their  guilt  and 
their  danger,  and  on  the  only  means  of  escape  from  both.  In 
the  midst  of  so  serious  a  work  as  this,  can  he  find  time  to  en- 
tertain his  hearers  with  the  speculations  of  a  false  philosophy? 
Or  can  he  have  a  heart  to  amuse  them  with  an  idle  dream  or 
a  lovely  song,  while  they  are  listening  for  the  word  of  life  ? 
Can  he  thus  trifle  with  their  eternal  interests  ?  Or  will  they 
permit  him  to  do  it,  and  applaud  him  for  it,  at  the  risk  of  lo- 
sing their  souls  at  last  ?  Will  the  day  ever  come,  my  dear 
brethren  and  friends,  when  you  will  peaceably  suffer  your  min- 
ister so  to  forget  the  solemn  charge  which  he  has  received, 
and  so  to  break  his  obligations  to  you  and  to  your  God,  as  to 
come  into  this  pulpit  Sabbath  after  Sabbath,  and  here  publish 
his  own  vain  fancies  or  those  of  other  men,  instead  of  the  stat- 
utes of  the  divine  government  and  the  wonders  of  redemp- 
tion ?  Will  you  ever  cease  to  require  that  he  preach  nothing 
but  those  momentous  truths,  by  which  you  and  your  children 
may  be  fitted  for  a  happy  eternity? 

II.  None  are  qualified  to  preach  the  truth  of  God,  without 
the  influence  of  his  Spirit. 

It  is  not  by  the  might  of  genius,  the  riches  of  learning,  or 
the  charm  of  eloquence,  nor  by  all  united,  that  men  are  quali- 
fied to  be  the  messengers  of  Heaven  to  their  fellow-sinners. 
What  can  all  accomplish  without  the  Spirit  of  God  ?  Can 
they  enable  a  minister  to  obtain  that  spiritual  discernment  of 
divine  truth  which  he  so  much  needs  ?  Can  they  render  him 
happy  in  declaring  this  truth  to  others  ?  Can  they  render 
him  successful  in  the  work  ?     If  they  can  avail  nothing  in  the 

few  cases  where  they  exist  together,  and  in  their  eminence, 

29 


226  SERMON    I. 

they  surely  can  avail  nothing  in  the  multitude  of  cases,  where 
they  are  found  but  in  part,  or  in  but  a  humble  degree.  You, 
brethren  and  friends,  cannot  expect  that  without  much  of  the 
special  assistance  of  God,  any  important  good  will  result 
from  the  labours  of  him,  who  can  be  at  best  but  a  feeble  in- 
strument of  the  divine  will.  If  you  look  to  your  minister,  to 
build  up  this  church,  you  will  crush  him  with  your  expecta- 
tions, and  prepare  for  yourselves  a  sad  disappointment.  The 
ways  of  our  Zion  will  mourn  from  one  month  to  another,  and 
year  after  year,  because  no  new  friends  come  to  her  solemn 
feasts.  Let  your  eyes  then  be  lifted  to  God.  On  him  let 
all  your  hopes  be  fixed.  Expect  nothing  from  me,  without 
constant  prayer  to  God  in  my  behalf.  Let  me  derive  encour- 
agement in  every  labour,  and  support  under  every  trial,  from 
the  assurance  that  you  daily  intercede  with  God,  that  I  may 
ever  enjoy  the  teachings  and  consolations  of  his  Spirit.  When 
in  the  retirement  of  the  study,  I  sit  down  to  the  investigation 
of  truth,  to  be  proclaimed  in  your  hearing,  let  me  feel  that 
you  are  praying  for  me.  Let  me  feel  it  in  the  shinmg  of 
heavenly  light  into  my  mind,  and  the  kindling  of  heavenly 
love  in  my  heart.  O  let  me  feel  that  an  unction  from  the 
Holy  One  is  poured  out  upon  me,  in  answer  to  your  united 
and  fervent  supphcations.  When  I  come  to  this  house  of 
God  to  declare  his  word,  let  me  feel  that  the  way  is  prepared 
before  me  by  the  prayers  of  my  people.  Then  may  we  both 
look  for  the  blessing  of  God  upon  our  services. 

in.  None  are  at  liberty  to  preach  from  any  selfish  motive. 

He  that  has  the  true  spirit  of  a  minister  of  Christ,  will  nev- 
er dare  to  preach  from  any  such  motive.  He  Mdlliiever  de- 
sire to  do  it.  It  would  be  no  privilege  to  him.  In  being 
bound  by  the  ties  of  immeasurable  obligation,  to  preach  for 
nothing  but  the  glory  of  God,  he  has  all  the  liberty  that  his 
heart  can  wish.  No  man  is  at  liberty  to  enter  the  ministry 
for  the  sake  of  obtaining  the  means  of  subsistence  ;  and  con- 
sequently no  one  is  at  hberty  to  pervert  the  truth,  or  to  keep 
back  a  part  of  it,  from  the  fear  of  any  on  whom  he  is  depend- 
ant.    No  one  can  be  at  liberty  to  take  upon  him  the  high  re- 


SERMON    I. 


22t 


sponsibilities  of  the  sacred  office,  in  order  to  gain  the  ap- 
plause of  the  world,  by  the  display  of  a  powerful  intellect, 
and  a  brilliant  imagination  ;  and  consequently  no  one  can  be 
at  liberty  to  preach  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  please  men,  rath- 
er than  instruct  and  save  them.  If  the  truth  be  preached  in 
such  a  manner,  that  the  hearers  uniformly  retire  from  the 
sanctuary,  not  meditating  in  solemn  silence  on  what  they  have 
heard,  but  conversing  with  an  air  of  lightness  on  the  fine  mod- 
ulations of  the  preacher's  voice,  the  gracefulness  of  his  mo- 
tions, the  beauty  of  his  language,  and  the  eloquence  of  his 
whole  delivery,  all  cannot  be  right  in  him  ;  there  must  be 
wrong  some  where  ;  and  it  will  be  well  if  it  be  not  in  the 
secret  motive  that  governs  him.  If  the  truth  be  so  preached, 
as  to  be  always  thus  easily  overlooked,  to  what  good  purpose 
is  it  preached  at  all  ?  Surely  it  can  hardly  be  worth  the  ne- 
cessary time  and  labour  and  expense,  to  furnish  a  vain  mortal 
with  an  opportunity  to  exhibit  himself  for  the  entertainment 
of  his  admirers.  The  truth  may  be  so  preached  as  to  lose 
its  saving  influence,  if  not  to  produce  the  deadly  effect  of  er- 
ror. The  preacher  may  reason  of  righteousness,  and  temper- 
ance, and  a  judgment  to  come,  in  such  a  manner,  that  the 
wicked  instead  of  trembling  shall  listen  with  delight.  The 
hand  of  taste  may  so  scatter  flowers  along  the  brink  of  the 
bottomless  pit,  that  men  can  walk  there  without  thinking  that 
their  feet  shall  slide  in  due  time.  He  is  the  best  preacher, 
who  sends  home  the  most  hearers,  in  heart-felt  silence,  to 
their  bibles,  to  their  secret  chambers,  and  to  the  mercy-seat 
of  God.  That  preacher  has  found  out  the  best  mode  of  de- 
livering his  message,  who  succeeds  best  in  keeping  himself 
out  of  view,  and  fixing  the  eyes  of  his  hearers  on  God.  The 
evangehsts  have  written  the  fife  of  Christ  so  well,  because 
they  have  left  themselves  out  of  sight,  and  exhibited  him  as 
speaking  or  acting  in  every  line.  And  he  that  would  be  as 
successful  in  preaching  Christ,  must  imitate  this  example  of 
theirs.  That  course  of  preaching  is  the  most  useful,  in  which 
God  is  most  clearly  and  constantly  presented  to  the  mind. 
In  concluding  this  sermon,  I  could  wish  that  this  single  truth 


228  SERMON    I. 

might  be  lodged  in  the  memory  of  every  hearer,  and  impress- 
ed on  every  heart.  Were  this  to  be  done,  my  labour  would 
not  be  in  vain. 

Such,  my  brethren  and  friends,  is  the  course  of  preaching 
that  I  shall  endeavour  to  pursue,  while  I  am  permitted  to  be 
a  minister  of  God.  To  such  a  course  you  have  been  so  well 
accustomed,  that  it  would  seem  as  if  it  ought  to  be  enough,  to 
exhort  you  to  hold  fast  that  which  ye  have  received,  and  fol- 
low on  to  know  the  Lord.  Your  beginning  as  a  church  and 
society,  is  as  unlike  that  of  most  others,  as  the  beginning  of 
the  colony  first  planted  in  New-England,  is  unlike  that  of  oth- 
er colonies.  You  start  from  elevated  ground.  I  say  this, 
not  to  cherish  a  spirit  of  pride,  but  to  forewarn  you  of  what 
will  be  expected  as  to  your  future  progress.  When  I  think 
of  the  great  and  good  men,  by  w^hom  as  spiritual  guides,  you 
have  been  conducted  to  the  present  point  in  your  journey  to 
another  world,  I  tremble  at  the  thought  of  undertaking  to 
continue  the  work  which  they  have  begun.  A  connexion 
has  now  been  formed  between  you  and  your  minister,  the 
effects  of  which,  can  be  measured  only  by  the  destinies  of  a 
blessed  and  a  miserable  eternity.  Here  we  now  commence 
a  series  of  sermons  and  prayers  and  praises,  which  will  be 
found  written  for  or  against  us,  in  the  day  when  the  books 
shall  be  opened,  and  heaven  and  hell  shall  receive  the  divi- 
ded multitude  of  immortals.  O  M'hat  greetings  of  unutterable 
joy,  when  ministers  and  people  meet  at  the  right  hand  of  their 
Judge.  May  the  God  of  infinite  mercy  grant  that,  when  the 
Chief  Shepherd  shall  inquire  of  me,  "  Where  is  the  flock 
that  was  committed  to  thee,  thy  beautiful  flock,"  I  may  find 
you  and  your  children  there  to  answer  for  me.  And  to  this 
end,  may  wisdom  and  grace  from  on  high,  enable  me  to 
preach  to  you  as  the  oracles  of  God,  and  to  minister  as  of  the 
ability  which  God  giveth,  that  God  in  all  things  may  be  glori- 
fied through  Jesus  Christ ;  to  whom  be  praise  and  dominion 
forever.     Amen. 


SERMON  11. 


JOHN ,  V.  22. 


"  For  the  Father  judgeth  no  man,  but  hath  committed  all  judgment  unto  the 
Son,  that  all  men  should  honour  the  Son  even  as  they  honour  the  Father." 

Many  and  various  are  the  arguments  in  proof  of  the  divin- 
ity of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  It  is  proper  to  consider  these 
arguments  in  their  connexion  with  each  other  ;  for  in  this 
way  they  receive  mutual  support,  and  leave  the  mind,  the 
candid  and  devout  mind,  under  the  full  conviction  that  the 
amount  of  proof  is  irresistible.  But  it  may  also  be  proper  to 
confine  our  meditations  occasionally  to  a  single  argument,  if 
at  the  same  time  we  guard  the  mind  against  all  suspicion 
that  we  therefore  give  up  the  rest  as  unsound. 

From  numerous  passages  of  the  word  of  God,  we  learn  the 
solemn  truth,  that  at  the  end  of  all  things,  when  all  the  pur- 
poses of  Jehovah  respecting  his  church  on  the  earth  shall  have 
been  accomplished,  when  the  last  of  this  world's  generations 
shall  have  lived  through  their  allotted  period  of  trial,  there  will 
be  a  day  of  general  judgment,  a  day  in  which  every  member  of 
the  human  family  will  be  tried  in  righteousness,  and  will  re- 
ceive a  happy  or  miserable  portion  for  eternity,  according  to 
his  works. 

From  other  passages  we  learn,  that  the  Son  of  God,  who 
came  from  heaven  to  be  the  Saviour  of  lost  men,  who  hum- 
bled himself  to  the  shame  of  the  cross  and  the  darkness  of 
the  tomb,  and  thence  rose  triumphant  to  the  throne  of  inter- 
cession, will  on  that  great  day  take  the  seat  of  judgment,  ere 
he  ascend  his  throne  of  full  and  final  glory. 

Among  these  passages,  is  the  one  that  has  just  been  read  as 
the  theme  of  the  present  discourse.  In  this  passage,  it  is 
affirmed  in  the  most  direct  and  unequivocal  language,  that 


230 


SERMON  II. 


tlie  Father  will  not  judge  a  single  individual  of  the  human 
race,  that  he  hath  committed  the  work  of  judgment  to  the  Son, 
and  that  his  object  in  doing  it  is  to  exhibit  his  divine  glory, 
and  claim  divine  worship  for  him  from  all  mankind. 

It  is  my  present  design  to  show  that, — The  office  of  Christ 
as  Judge  of  the  world  proves  his  divinity.  In  establishing 
this  position,  permit  me  to  call  your  attention  to  the  following 
arguments. 

I.  The  Scriptures  ascribe  the  work  of  judgment  both  to 
Christ  and  to  God. 

God  is  Judge.  "  Know  thou,  that  for  all  these  things,  God 
will  bring  thee  into  judgment."  **  God  shall  bring  every  work 
into  judgment,  with  every  secret  thing,  whether  it  be  good 
or  whether  it  be  evil."  "  Every  one  of  us  shall  give  an  ac- 
count of  himself  unto  God.^^  "  And  I  saw  the  dead,  small 
and  great,  stand  before  God  ;  and  the  books  were  opened  ; 
and  another  book  was  opened  wliich  is  the  book  of  life  ; 
and  the  dead  were  judged  out  of  those  things  which  were 
written  in  the  books,  according  to  their  works." 

Christ  is  Judge.  "  We  must  all  stand  before  the  judg- 
ment seat  of  Christ"  "  1  charge  thee,  therefore,  before  God, 
•and  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  who  shall  judge  the  quick  and  the 
dead  at  his  appearing  and  his  kingdom." 

The  conclusion  drawn  from  these  two  classes  of  quotations, 
is  obvious.  If  God  is  Judge,  and  Christ  is  Judge — God  and 
Christ  are  one. 

It  is  objected,  that  the  Scriptures  speak  of  the  saints  as 
judges  of  the  world  ;  and  as  the  meaning  must  be,  that  they 
are  to  be  assessors  with  God  in  judgment,  concurring  in  his' 
righteous  decisions,  this  may  be  the  meaning,  when  Christ  is 
spoken  of  as  Judge. 

I  answer,  that  the  language  in  the  two  cases  is  essentially 
different — as  different  as  that  used  by  Christ  and  his  Apos- 
tles in  working  miracles.  Christ  says,  "  I  say  unto  thee,  rise 
up  and  walk."  /  command  thee  to  come  out  of  him" — a 
manner  of  speaking  which  proves  the  power  by  whom  the 
miracles  were  wrought,  to  be  divine.     The  Apostles  say,  "  In 


SERMON  II. 


esi 


the  name  of  Jesus  I  say  unto  thee  rise  up  and  walk." — "  In 
the  name  of  Jesus  come  out  of  him" — a  manner  of  speaking 
which  proves  the  power  by  which  the  miracles  were  wrought, 
to  be  divine,  but  not  the  person.  The  language  used  in 
speaking  of  Christ  as  Judge  of  the  world,  is  such  as  implies 
absolute  personal  authority.  It  represents  him  on  the  throne 
dispensing  the  destinies  of  the  universe.  "  The  Son  of  man 
shall  come  in  the  clouds  of  heaven  with  power  and  greatglo- 
ry — he  shall  sit  upon  the  throne  of  his  glory,  with  all  nations 
gathered  before  him — he  shall  separate  them  one  from  anoth- 
er, and  shall  say  unto  those  on  his  right,  come  ye  blessed,  and 
to  those  on  his  left,  depart  ye  cursed." 

Now  read  this  description  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter, 
with  the  name  "  Son  of  Man"  exchanged  for  that  of  the 
highest  saint  that  ever  lived — read  Paul  in  its  stead — and 
while  you  are  shocked  at  the  exchange,  you  will  be  convin- 
ced that  Christ  is  to  be  Judge  in  a  very  different  sense  from 
the  saints. 

It  is  objected  farther,  that  the  Son  executes  the  office  of 
Judge  by  delegation  from  the  Father  ;  and  such  texts  as  the 
following — "  God  hath  appointed  a  day,  in  which  he  will 
Judge  the  world  in  righteousness  hy  that  man  whom  he  hath 
ordained" — "  In  that  day  shall  God  Judge  the  secrets  of  men 
hy  Jesus  Christ" — are  brought  to  establish  the  objection. 

It  IS  granted  that  the  office  itself  is  delegated  ;  but  the  qual- 
ifications necessary  for  discharging  the  duties  of  the  office  are 
not  and  cannot  be  delegated.  These  qualifications  are  es- 
sential attributes  of  the  Godhead.  No  one  will  pretend  that 
these  attributes,  if  they  could  be  transferred  at  all,  can  be 
transferred  to  a  created  being  without  destroying  all  distinc- 
tion between  the  eternal  Creator  and  the  short-lived  crea- 
ture— without  raising  the  dust  and  ashes  of  yesterday's  for- 
mation to  a  level  with  the  self-existent  and  infinite  glories  of 
divinity — without  God's  renouncing  his  right  of  supremacy,, 
and  coming  down  from  his  throne,  or  condescending  to  share 
its  honors  with  equals  of  his  own  making.  The  attributes  of 
the  Judge,  then,  must  be  inherent,  as  they  are  incapable  of 


233  SERMON    II. 

being  transferred.  Though  the  office  of  Judge,  which  seems 
to  be  a  consequence  of  the  office  of  mediator,  be  committed 
to  the  Son,  this  commission  does  not  disprove  the  equahty  of 
the  Son  with  the  Father.  Indeed,  it  appears  from  my  text, 
that  the  Father,  in  constituting  the  Son  Judge  of  the  world, 
designed  to  make  known  his  equahty,  and  to  claim  for  him 
the  homage  paid  to  himself — "  For  the  Father  judgeth  no  man, 
but  hath  committed  all  judgment  unto  the  Son,  that  men 
should  honor  the  Son,  even  as  they  honor  the  Father." 

II.  If  Christ  is  to  be  the  Judge  of  the  world,  his  knowledge 
must  be  infinite. 

In  order  to  ascertain  what  kind  or  degree  of  knowledge  in 
a  judge,  is  requisite,  to  enable  him  to  form  correct  decisions, 
we  must  first  ascertain  the  nature  of  the  actions  to  be  judged, 
and  the  nature  of  the  laws  by  which  they  are  to  be  judged. 
Human  laws  take  cognizcmce  only  of  the  external  actions. — 
The  knowledge  of  the  human  judge,  therefore,  must  relate  to 
such  actions.  The  divine  law  reaches  the  heart,  as  well  as 
the  external  conduct.  The  knowledge  of  the  divine  judge, 
therefore,  must  relate  to  both. 

But  were  only  the  outward  actions  of  men  to  be  brought 
into  the  account  at  the  bar  of  God,  still  the  knowledge  of  the 
judge,  as  it  will  not  be  gathered  from  the  testimony  of  others, 
must  be  more  than  human.  At  this  moment,  an  innumerable 
multitude  of  outward  actions  are  performing  on  the  earth, 
which  must  be  brought  into  judgment.  Consider  that  this 
has  been  the  fact  in  every  moment  that  is  past,  and  will  be  the 
fact  in  every  moment  that  is  to  come.  He  who  is  to  be 
judge,  therefore,  must  at  the  same  moment  be  present  in  ev-' 
ery  place,  beholding  the  evil  and  the  good.  He  must  witness 
every  circumstance,  however  minute,  that  attends  each  ac- 
tion— all  the  consequences,  however  remote.  He  must  be 
one  that  can  see  through  the  thick  cloud  ;  one  to  whom  the 
night  shineth  as  the  day.  What  human  being,  then,  nay 
what  angel,  could  pass  a  just  decision  on  all  the  outward  ac- 
tions of  men  ? 

But  when  we  read,  that  "  the  Lord  searcheth  the  heart" — 


SERMON  II.  233 

that "  he  will  make  manifest  the  counsels  of  the  heart"— and 
that  "  the  secrets  of  all  hearts  shall  be  revealed,"  we  readily 
perceive  that  no  degree  of  knowledge  less  than  infinite,  could 
qualify  a  being  for  the  office  of  judge.  He  must  be  perfectly 
acquainted  with  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  soul,  and  discern 
the  secret  spring  of  every  thought  and  action  ;  that  he  may 
be  able  to  detect  the  hollo wness  of  the  hypocrite,  and  bring 
to  light  the  sincerity  of  the  trembling,  doubting  Christian. 

As  the  design  of  the  day  of  judgment  is  to  display  to  the 
universe  the  glory  of  God  ;  particularly  his  attributes  of  justice 
and  mercy — mercy  to  believers  in  Jesus,  and  justice  to  unbe- 
lievers, the  Judge  must  possess  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the 
counsels  of  eternal  wisdom.  He  must  see,  in  their  full  ex- 
tent, all  the  consequences  involved  in  the  fall  of  man  ;  that  he 
may  be  able  to  estimate  the  expense  of  his  restoration.  And 
he  must  have  a  complete  knowledge  of  the  price  and  the 
means  of  salvation,  to  enable  him  to  estimate  the  guilt  of 
those  who  reject  it.  In  short  he  must  possess  a  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  length,  and  breadth,  and  height,  and  depth 
of  that  goodness  and  mercy,  which  God  has  manifested  to-^ 
wards  the'  children  of  men,  in  creation,  providence,  and  re- 
demption, in  order  to  estimate  the  measure  of  man's  ingrati- 
tude, and  of  that  love  which  could  pardon  it. 

Ta  be  present  in  every  place  beholding  the  evil  and  the 
good — to  know  the  secrets  of  all  hearts — and  to  know  all  the 
plans  and  counsels  of  the  Most  High,  is  far,  far  above  the  ca- 
pacity of  any  finite  mind. 

If  Christ,  then,  is  to  be  the  Judge  of  the  world,  his  know- 
ledge is  infinite.  This  conclusion  accords  with  many  texts  of 
scripture  ;  such  as  the  following — "  He  knew  all  men,  and 
needed  not  that  any  should  testify  of  man  ;  for  he  knew  what 
was  in  man" — and  the  answer  of  Peter,  "  Lord  thou  knowest 
all  things,  thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee" — and  the  address 
in  the  prayer  of  the  disciples  at  the  election  of  one  to  take 
the  place  of  Judas — "  Thou  Lord,  which  knowest  the  hearts 
of  all  men," 

30 


234  SERMON  II. 

But  if  Christ  possesses  infinite  knowledge,  he  is  divine  ; 
for  infinite  knowledge  is  an  attribute  of  divinity  alone. 

III.  If  Christ  is  to  be  the  Judge  of  the  world,  his  power 
must  be  infinite. 

The  judgment  day  will  be,  not  only  the  most  important  and 
interesting  of  all  days  ;  but  it  will  also  be  the  most  sublime 
and  awful.  Who  can  read  the  representations  of  this  day 
given  in  the  word  of  God,  and  not  be  convinced  at  once,  that 
every  transaction  must  be  an  exertion  of  infinite  power  ?  The 
Judge  will  first  raise  the  dead.  "  The  Son  of  Man  shall  come 
in  the  clouds  of  heaven  with  power  and  great  glory."  The 
trumpet  will  sound,  and  all  that  are  in  their  graves  shall  hear 
the  voice  of  the  Son  of  God,  and  come  forth — all,  in  a  mo- 
ment, in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  Here  is  infinite  power. 
The  Judge  will  then  summon  before  his  tribunal,  from  all  na- 
tions, and  kindreds,  and  tongues,  under  the  whole  heavens,  all 
that  have  ever  lived  on  the  earth — from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  time.  "  The  sea  shall  give  up  the  dead  which  were  in 
it ;  and  death  and  hell  deliver  up  the  dead  which  were  in 
them." 

Not  only  must  the  knowledge  of  the  Judge  be  infinite,  that 
that  no  son  or  daughter  of  Adam  be  forgotten  ;  but  his  pow- 
er must  be  infinite,  that  no  one  escape. 

When  the  judgment  is  set,  and  the  Judge  hath  ascended 
the  great  white  throne  ;  the  books  shall  be  opened,  and  the 
dead  be  judged  out  of  those  things  which  are  written  in  the 
books,  according  to  their  works.  But  who  is  worthy  to  open 
the  book  ?  The  Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah,  the  Root  of  David 
hath  prevailed  to  open  the  book,  and  to  loose  the  seals  there- 
of. After  the  different  sentences  are  pronounced,  the  Judge 
must  possess  infinite  power  in  order  to  execute  them — to  con- 
duct the  blessed  into  that  "  kingdom  prepared  for  them  from 
the  foundation  of  the  world  ;"  and  to  drive  away  the  wicked 
into  that  "  everlasting  fire  prepared  for  the  devil  and  his  an- 
gels." 

This  is  not  the  end.  The  fallen  angels,  that  "  are  reserved 
in  everlasting  chains  under  darkness    unto  the  judgment  of 


SERMON    II.  235 

the  great  day"  will  also  be  judged,  and  receive  their  final 
doom.— And  who  but  the  being,  who  holds  in  his  right  hand 
the  keys  of  death  and  hell, — who  openeth  and  no  man  shut- 
teth  and  shutteth  and  no  man  openeth,  is  able  to  execute  this 
part  of  the  work  of  judgment. — But  even  this  is  not  the  end. 
We  read  that  the  heavens  and  the  earth  which  now  are  kept 
in  "  store,  are  reserved  unto  fire  against  the  day  of  judgment 
and  perdition  of  ungodly  men"— that  the  "  heavens  shall  pass 
away  with  a  great  noise,  and  the  elements  melt  with  fervent 
heat" — "the  stars  shall  fall  unto  the  earth,  even  as  a  fi[g-tree 
casteth  her   untimely  figs,  when  she  is  shaken  of  a  mighty 
wind."     The  most  vivid  descriptions  of  an  inspired  and  sanc- 
tified imagination,  and  the  most  striking  visions  that  mortals 
could  behold  and  live,  but  faintly  shadow  forth  the  real  ter- 
rors of  that  day.     It  will  be  indeed  "the  great  and  dreadful 
day  of  the  Lord."     Who  then  but  the  same  Almighty  Word, 
by  whom  the  worlds  were  made,  and  who  upholds  them  by 
liis  power,  is  able  to  direct  the  events  of  this  great  day? — this 
day  of  revolutions  in  the  system  of  the  universe? — this  day  of 
overturning,  and  throwing  down,  and  building  up  anew — not 
in  one  little  empire  of  men,  but  throughout  the  material  and 
moral  kingdom  of  Jehovah — not  by  the  intervention  of  slow 
and  imperceptible  means,  like  those  producing  the  revolutions 
in  human  governments  and  in  the  seasons  of  the  year,  but 
by  the  immediate  and  rapid,  the  audible  and  visible  move- 
ments of  an  omnipotent  hand,  breaking  up  at  once  the  whole 
system  of  nature's  long  established  laws — turning  order  into 
confusion,  and  again  out  of  confusion  bringing  order  in  its  per- 
fection of  beauty  and  gloiy  ? — Did  Jehovah  himself  spread  out 
these  heavens  as  a  curtain  over  our  heads,  and  estabhsh  this 
earth  under  our  feet,  and  will  he  commission  a  man,  or  an 
angelic  intelligence,  to  destroy  these  works  of  his  hand,  and 
create  the  new  heavens  and  earth  of  surpassing  splendour 
and  loveliness?     Does  the  Father  of  lights  control  and  di- 
rect in  this  fair  frame  of  nature  at  present,  while  all  things  are 
moving  on  in  peaceful  uniformity,  through  successive  days 
and  nights,  seasons  and  years;  and  will  he  resign  his  govern- 


236  SERMON  ir. 

ment  to  a  being  of  human  or  angelic  rank,  on  the  day  ap- 
pointed for  the  termination  of  this  peaceful  uniformity,  for  the 
end  of  time,  the  end  of  the  world,  the  end  of  all  things,  and 
for  the  creation  of  a  new  fabric  to  be  imperishable,  and  the 
introduction  of  a  new  order  of  things  to  continue  forever  im- 
mutable ?  Is  it  to  be  believed,  that  a  being,  possessed  of  less 
than  infinite  power,  will  hold  the  reins  of  government,  amid 
the  dreadful,  and  the  glorious  revolutions  of  the  last  day?  If 
not,  Christ  possesses  infinite  power. 

This  conclusion  is  in  accordance  with  his  own  express  de- 
clarations, such  as  the  following — "All  power  is  given  to  me 
in  heaven  and  on  earth" — "  I  am  Alpha  and  Omega,  the  be- 
ginning and  the  ending,  which  is,  and  which  was,  and  which 
is  to  come,  the  Almighty,"  If  then  Christ  possesses  infinite 
power,  he  is  divine;  for  infinite  power  is  an  attribute  pecuhar 
to  Divinity. 

IV.  If  Christ  is  to  be  the  Judge  of  the  world,  his  justice 
must  be  infinite. 

In  order  to  obtain  a  full  conviction  of  the  truth  of  tliis 
sentiment,  let  a  man  consider,  that  every  work,  with  every 
secret  thing,  is  to  be  brouglit  into  judgment,  and  that  all  man- 
kind are  to  be  judged  according  to  their  works ;  then  let  him 
send  his  thoughts  abroad  over  the  milhons  of  the  human  fam- 
ily, and  contemplate  their  innumerable  varieties  and  shades 
of  moral  character — let  him  think  too  of  the  endless  diversity 
of  circumstances  in  which  their  sevej-al  characters  are  form- 
ed ;  let  him  think  of  the  incalculable  diflference  in  their  means 
of  moral  improvement  in  different  ages  and  nations,  in  the 
quanjtity  of  light  received  from  heaven,  in  natural  understand- 
ing, in  their  employment  and  relative  situation  in  society,  in 
the  length  of  life,  and  in  other  like  particulars,  all  to  be  brought 
into  the  final  account.  Amid  this  inconceivable  diversity  of 
characters  and  circumstances — amid  the  whole  collected 
multitude  of  sins  and  virtues  in  the  human  race,  of  fair  ap- 
pearances and  foul  realities  in  human  nature  through  all  the 
generations  of  time,  who,  is  qualified  to  hold  the  balance  of 
distributive  justice,  but  a  being  possessed  of  that  infinite  rec- 


SERMON    II.  237 

titude  flowing  from  the  union  of  omniscience  and  infinite 
goodness?  An  angel,  or  a  man  perfectly  holy,  would  decide 
justly,  to  the  extent  of  his  faculties  ;  but,  his  faculties  being 
limited,  he  must  necessarily  fall  short  of  completing  the  work 
of  righteous  judgment.  He  would  be  disposed  to  render  to 
every  one,  with  impartial  exactness,  the  fruit  of  his  doings; 
yet  he  would  nevertheless  be  utterly  unfit  for  the  task,  not 
only  from  the  want  of  sufficient  knowledge  of  facts,  but  also 
from  the  want  of  capacity  to  estimate,  with  unerring  preci- 
sion, the  various  degrees  of  guilt  and  innocence,  upon  the  im- 
mutable principles  of  equity  established  in  the  government  of 
Jehovah.  Are  then  the  destinies  of  the  universe  for  eternity 
to  be  committed  to  a  being  possessed  of  the  finite  capacities 
of  a  man  or  an  angel  ?  If  so,  may  it  not  with  propriety  be  ask- 
ed, who  but  the  saint  of  visible  and  eminent  piety,  one  shining 
bright  with  the  external  beauty  of  holiness,  can  have  any  thing 
to  hope  ? — and  who  but  the  sinner  of  open  immorality,  one 
with  the  mark  of  reprobation  WTitten  in  his  forehead,  can  have 
aught  to  fear?  Or  if  we  suppose  a  created  being  to  be  made 
capable  of  drawing  correctly  the  general  line  of  separation 
through  the  whole  multitude  of  the  righteous  and  the  wicked, 
and  passing  upon  the  former  the  general  sentence  of  acquittal, 
and  on  the  latter  that  of  condemnation,  still  it  must  remain 
forever  impossible  for  him,  to  proportion  the  rewards  or  pun- 
ishments, of  every  individual  of  both  classes,  to  the  relative  de- 
gree of  good  or  evil  in  his  character.  It  must  be  no  less  im- 
possible for  such  a  being,  to  exhibit  to  assembled  worlds,  the 
full  glory  of  God's  eternal  law,  in  every  case  of  condemnation, 
and,  in  every  case  of  justification,  the  eciual  glory  of  his  grace 
through  the  blood  of  atonement.  No  degree  of  justice  less 
than  infiinite  can  render  it  certain  that  no  soul  shall  ever  suflTer 
the  least  wrong,  nor  the  government  of  God  receive  the  least 
dishonour. 

Christ  Jesus,  the  Judge,  therefore,  possesses  infinite  jus- 
tice. 

(This  conclusion  is  agreeable  to  various  scriptural  represen- 
tations of  his  character  and  offices,  and  to  those  passages,  in 


23S 


SERMON  II, 


which  he  is  called,  by  way  of  eminence,  tlie  Just  One,  as  Je- 
hovah is  called  the  Holy  One. 

From  the  possession  of  the  divine  attribute  of  infinite  justice, 
the  divinity  of  Christ  is  correctly  and  clearly  infeiTcd. 

V.  If  Christ  is  to  be  the  Judge  of  the  world,  his  mercy 
must  be  infinite.  >  + 

The  necessity  of  infinite  mercy,  in  the  judge  of  the  world, 
rests  not  on  the  same  ground  with  the  necessity  of  infinite 
justice.  The  latter  is  essential  to  his  character,  in  an  abso- 
lute sense,  under  all  possible  circumstances.  It  is  as  neces- 
sary with  the  atonement,  as  it  would  have  been  without  it. 
Indeed,  the  express  object  of  Christ's  death  was,  that  God 
might  be  just,  and  yet  the  justifier  of  the  believing  penitent. 
The  necessity  of  infinite  justice  is  not  superseded  nor  dimin- 
ished by  the  blood  that  was  shed  on  Calvary.  Its  dignity 
and  excellence  are  preserved  in  all  their  inherent  perfection. 
It  is  the  same  high  and  glorious  attribute  that  it  ever  was. 
It  has  the  same  respect  that  it  ever  had,  to  the  divine  law,  in 
its  immutable  purity  and  goodness.  The  extent  of  its  domin- 
ion is  not  lessened^  Heaven  is  not  wrested  from  its  empire 
by  the  arm  of  mercy,  nor  won  from  it  by  her  sufferings  and 
weeping  entreaties.  No  !  justice  reigns  as  absolutely  in  the 
destiny  of  those  who  walk  at  liberty  in  the  paradise  of  God, 
as  in  that  of  those  who  are  shut  up  in  the  prison  of  despair. 
The  Judge  is  equally  just  in  condemning  the  unbeliever  for 
his  own  wickedness,  and  in  justifying  the  believer  on  account 
of  the  perfect  righteousness  of  his  great  substitute.  The  eter- 
nal Father  is  under  obligation  to  the  Son,  to  admit  into  hea- 
ven, as  an  act  of  justice,  all  that  are  included  in  the  covenant 
of  redemption.  But  the  divine  Being  is  under  no  such  obli- 
gation to  the  redeemed  themselves.  The  nature  of  their  sins 
is  not  changed,  nor  their  guilt  destroyed,  by  the  atonement. 
They  still  deserve  to  endure  the  proper  punishment  of  trans- 
gression. Their  justification  must,  therefore,  be  wholly  an 
act  of  sovereign  grace.  Notwithstanding  their  penitence  and 
faith,  nothing  but  infinite  mercy  can  save  them.  Hence  comes 
the  need  of  this  attribute  in  the  character  of  their  final  Judge. 


SERMON    II.  289 

It  is  not  necessaiy  in  an  absolute  sense,  because  in  this  sense 
it  is  not  necessary  to  the  honour  of  God's  law,  that  the  trans- 
gressor be  pardoned  on  any  account.  But  it  is  necessary 
under  existing  circumstances,  in  connexion  with  the  purpose  of 
God  to  save  all  penitent  believers  in  Christ,  notwithstanding 
their  desert  of  destruction.  And  are  not  the  offences  of 
Christians  so  many  and  great,  as  to  require  the  exercise  of  in- 
finite mercy  in  their  Judge  ?  Where  is  the  saint  that  thinks 
so  lightly  of  his  sins,  as  to  feel  willing  to  trust  his  soul  to  the 
limited  compassion  of  a  creature  like  himself?  Who  is  there 
among  you,  my  brethren,  that  feels  conscious  of  having  fall- 
en so  little  short  of  loving  God  with  all  the  heart,  soul,  mind, 
and  strength,  and  fearing  before  him  always,  and  trusting  in 
him  only,  and  obeying  him  perfectly,  as  to  need  but  little  mer- 
cy at  the  judgment  of  the  great  day  ?  Who  is  there,  that  re- 
gards his  violations  of  the  divine  law  as  so  few  and  slight, 
that  he  can  look  forward,  without  trembling,  to  a  trial  before 
a  judge,  whose  clemency  is  limited  by  the  faculties  of  a  crea- 
ted nature?  If  such  a  being  is  to  sit  on  the  throne  of  final 
judgment,  what  is  your  hope  ?  On  what  is  it  built  ?  If  it  be 
built  on  justice,  it  will  avail  you  nothing  ;  and  it  cannot  be 
built  on  mercy,  for  there  is  not  mercy  enough  for  its  founda- 
tion. Such  a  being,  then,  will  not  take  the  throne,  in  the 
great  day  of  account.  For  it  is  already  decided  by  the  voice 
of  inspiration,  that,  of  our  apostate  race,  a  multitude  that  no 
man  can  number,  shall  be  pardoned  in  that  day.  The  son  of 
God,  therefore,  being  the  appointed  Judge,  is  possessed  of 
the  divine  attribute  of  infinite  mercy. 

This  conclusion  accords  entirely  with  the  whole  tenour  and 
spirit  of  his  gospel,  and  receives  confirmation  from  every  part 
of  his  great  work  of  redemption. 

And  with  this  conclusion,  we  are  brought  again  to  the  truth 
of  his  essential  divinity  ;  at  which  we  have  before  arrived,  in 
so  many  similar  ways. 

To  accomplish  my  present  purpose,  the  establishment  of 
this  grand  truth,  it  is  not  necessary  to  pursue  any  further,  the 
course  of  argument,  that  has  now  been  adopted;  for  the  pos' 


240  SERMON  II. 

session  of  even  one  divine  attribute  involves  the  possession  of 
all. 

From  the  view  taken  of  this  subject,  we  are  led  to  the  fol- 
lowing reflections. 

I.  The  divinity  of  Christ  will  not  be  denied  at  the  day  of 
judgment. 

Though  many  may  deny  it  in  this  life,  while  he  is  pouring 
down  blessings  upon  the  earth,  in  the  character  of  a  Redeem- 
er and  Intercessor,  will  they  be  able  to  do  it  when  he  shall 
appear  as  the  Judge  of  the  quick  and  the  dead  ?  Though 
the  pride  of  false  philosophy  and  a  hatred  of  the  light  may,  at 
present,  lead  men  to  reject  all  the  evidence  derived  from  the 
divine  titles,  the  divine  attributes,  and  divine  works  of  Christ, 
as  the  Creator  of  all  things  and  the  Saviour  of  a  lost  world, 
will  it  always  be  thus  ?  Will  it  be  thus  when  he  comes  to 
bring  all  things  to  their  destined  consummation,  and  to  judge 
the  world  which  he  died  to  save  ?  If  to  have  made  the  prin- 
cipalities and  powers  of  heaven,  to  have  spread  out  the  sky 
as  a  molten  looking-glass,  and  to  have  laid  the  foundations  of 
the  earth  amid  the  songs  and  shouts  of  all  the  morning  stars, 
will  not  convince  men  of  the  divinity  of  Christ,  will  they  not 
be  convinced  when  he  shall  come  in  the  clouds  of  heaven 
with  power  and  great  glory,  and  all  his  holy  angels  with  him, 
to  reward  his  saints  and  render  vengeance  to  his  enemies, 
and  doom  the  earth  and  the  works  that  are  therein  to  be  burnt 
up  ?  If  they  see  no  evidence  of  this  truth,  while  all  tilings 
are  subsisting  by  him  in  grand  and  peaceful  order,  while  he 
preserves  suns  and  planets  in  their  courses,  bears  the  eai'th 
forward  through  its  daily  and  yearly  changes,  and  holds  the 
ocean  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  will  they  see  none  when  he  * 
shall  rend  the  heavens  and  come  down,  and  the  stars  shall 
be  quenched  in  the  flood  of  glory  around  him,  the  earth  shall 
be  stopt  in  its  course,  the  elements  shall  melt  around  him,  the 
mountains  flow  down  at  his  presence,  the  sea  shrink  away, 
and  every  island  flee  out  of  his  place  ?  If  they  can  discover 
notliing  divine  in  the  Son  of  God,  as  he  expires  on  the  cross 
amid  the  sytnjjathetic  changes  of  nature,  the  fading  sun,  the 


SERMON  II.  241 

rending  rocks,  and  the  opening  graves,  will  they  discover 
none,  when,  awful  in  majesty,  he  takes  the  throne  of  judg- 
ment amid  the  convulsions  of  a  dissolving  universe  ?  Will 
they  then  see  any  occasion  for  looking  up  to  him,  and  saying 
with  contemptuous  mockery,  "  Save  thyself,  and  come  down, 
and  we  will  believe  ?"  When  they  hear  the  voice  of  the 
Son  of  God,  calling  upon  the  great  congregation  of  the  dead, 
to  rise  and  come  to  judgment,  will  they  be  able  to  persuade 
themselves  that  they  hear  only  the  voice  of  a  man  like  one  of 
themselves  ?  And  when  they  behold  the  work  of  judgment 
proceed  till  the  last  sentence  is  pronounced  on  the  divided 
multitude,  can  they  believe  it  to  be  any  being  but  God,  who 
is  thus  measuring  out  the  rewards  and  punishments  of  eter- 
nity, and  fixing  the  destiny  of  a  world  of  immortals  ?  When 
they  behold  the  King  of  Zion  riding  on  his  chariot  of  clouds 
to  the  New  Jerusalem,  with  all  his  redeemed  children  shout- 
ing "  Hosanna  to  the  Son  of  David  !  Hosanna  in  the  high- 
est !  Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  everlasting  gates,  and  the  King 
of  Glory  shall  come  in,"  will  it  be  necessary  to  bring  any 
more  arguments  to  keep  men  from  stripping  him  of  his  di- 
vine honours  ?  No,  brethren,  we  shall  have  to  plead  for  the 
Son  of  God  no  more  ;  he  will  arise,  and  plead  for  himself 
with  the  terrors  and  glories  of  the  last  day,  till  every  knee 
shall  bow  to  him,  and  every  tongue  confess  that  he  is  Lord 
to  the  glory  of  God  the  Father. 

II.  The  friends  of  Christ  have  reason  to  rejoice  in  him  as 
their  Judge. 

They  have  cause  for  joy  in  the  infinite  knowledge  of 
their  Judge.  They  cannot  but  be  sensible  of  the  consolation 
to  be  derived  from  the  fact,  that  while  man  judgeth  accord- 
ing to  the  outward  appearance  ; — the  Being  to  whom  they  are 
accountable,  judgeth  righteous  judgment.  Though  they  dare 
not  challenge  the  scrutiny  of  the  Searcher  of  hearts,  they  re- 
joice that  he  sees  the  bitter  tears  of  penitence  shed  in  secret, 
and  knows  the  pains  of  the  broken  heart — that  he  sees  the 
inward  conflicts  with  sin,  and  aclinowledges  the  willing  spir- 
it when  the  flesh  is  weak — that  he  sees  the  alms  given,  when 

31 


242 


SERMON  II. 


the  left  hand  knoweth  not  what  the  right  hand  doeth— that  he 
sees  them  when  they  have  entered  their  closet  and  shut  the 
door,  and  are  praying  to  their  Father,  who  seeth  in  secret,  and 
will  reward  them  openly. 

They  rejoice  that  he  knoweth  their  down-sitting  and  their 
up-rising,  and  understandeth  their  thoughts  afar  ofi' — that  he 
compasseth  their  path,  and  is  acquainted  with  all  their  ways. 
His  promises  that,  '  where  two  or  three  are  gathered  togeth- 
er in  his  name,  there  he  will  be  in  the  midst  of  them  and 
bless  them' — and  that  '  he  will  be  with  them  always,  even  to 
-the  end  of  the  world,'  afford  his  disciples  unspeakable  joy. 

It  is  to  them  a  matter  of  much  consolation,  that  their  Sa- 
viour and  Judge  knows  all  their  wants,  and  will  supply  them 
out  of  his  abundant  fulness — that  he  knows  the  best  means 
to  train  them  up  for  his  coming  and  kingdom,  and  enable 
them  to  give  up  their  account  with  joy  and  not  with  anguish. 

When,  therefore,  affliction  is  sent,  they  consider  it  as  sent 
in  love.  And  when  the  messenger  of  death  comes,  they  re- 
ceive him  in  peace,  and  often,  in  the  fulness  of  faith,  welcome 
him  as  an  angel  of  mercy,  "  bringing  the  glad  tidings  of  deliv- 
erance to  captives,  and  the  opening  of  the  prison  to  them  that 
are  bound."  They  can  then  commit  their  bodies  to  the  dust, 
in  the  joyful  belief  that  their  Redeemer  and  Judge  will  ever 
guard  them  with  the  sleepless  eye  of  love,  and  remember  them 
at  the  rising  of  the  just. 

It  may  be  asked,  if  the  infinite  knowledge  of  their  Judge 
can  afford  Christians  any  comfort  in  the  expectation,  that 
their  sins,  even  the  most  secret,  will  be  disclosed.  The  con- 
cern manifested  by  some  Christians,  at  the  thought  of  such  .a 
disclosure,  and  that  trembling  interest  with  which  they  en- 
deavour to  limit  the  meaning  of  the  divine  declarations,  "  that 
every  work  shall  be  brought  into  judgment  with  every  secret 
thing,  whether  it  be  good  or  whether  it  be  evil" — and — "  the 
secrets  of  all  hearts  shall  be  revealed,"  can  be  accounted  for 
on  no  other  ground,  but  that  of  an  erroneous  opinion  respect- 
ing the  design  and  effect  of  this  universal  disclosure,  so  far  as 
it  relates  to  them.  Deeply  impressed  by  a  sense  of  their 
vileness  in  the  sight  of  God,  they  may  not  be  able  to  rid 


SERMON  II. 


243 


themselves  of  the  idea,  that  such  a  disclosure  must  bring  up- 
on them  the  scorn  and  derision  of  the  ungodly,  particularly  of 
those  who  in  this  life  were  accustomed  to  regard  them  as 
eminent  saints.  This,  they  suppose,  would  fill  them  with 
such  shame  and  confusion,  as  would  be  inconsistent  with  a 
state  of  perfect  happiness.  But  when  Christians  consider, 
that  their  Judge  will  not  publish  their  sins,  to  give  them  pain, 
or  to  condemn  them  ;  but  to  magnify  the  wonders  of  his  own 
redeeming  mercy  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole  universe  of  intelli- 
gent beings,  why  should  not  their  distress  be  turned  into  joy  ? 
Should  they  not  rejoice  to  see  their  Saviour  honoured  to 
their  own  confusion. 

What  if  the  impenitent  of  their  acquaintance,  do  behold 
their  secret  sins  !  They  will  also  behold  their  secret  repent- 
ance. What  if  they  do  behold  them  stript  of  their  own  right- 
eousness !  they  will  also  behold  them  clothed  in  the  perfect 
righteousness  of  Christ.  What  if  they  behold  them  speech- 
less !  they  will  see  their  Saviour  and  Judge  open  his  lips  and 
plead  for  them. — "  I  was  an  hungered  and  ye  gave  me  meat  ; 
I  was  thirsty  and  ye  gave  me  drink  ;  I  was  a  stranger  and 
ye  took  me  in." 

Well  then  may  Christians  rejoice,  though  with  trembling 
humility,  in  view  of  the  infinite  knowledge  of  Christ. 

His  infinite  power,  also,  is  to  them  a  source  of  constant  joy. 
It  is  the  infinite  power  of  Christ  that  ensures  to  his  followers 
a  complete  triumph  over  all  their  spiritual  foes — over  the 
world  and  the  flesh — over  sin  and  Satan — and  at  length  over 
Death,  the  last  enemy  that  shall  be  destroyed. 

It  is  because  the  Head  of  the  Church  is  Almighty,  that  the 
gates  of  hell  can  never  prevail  against  it.  In  all  her  trials, 
the  Church  may  look  forward  with  confidence,  exulting  in  the 
strength  of  her  Deliverer.  The  spiritual  temple  is  not  built 
upon  the  sand.  The  storm  of  persecution  may  beat,  and  the 
floods  of  infidelity  and  iniquity  rage  against  it  ;  but  it  will 
never  fall,  while  its  foundation  is  the  Rock  of  Ages. 

The  power  of  Christ  is  pledged  for  the  future  triumph  and 
glory  of  the  Church  upon  earth.  Zion  shall  arise  and  shine. 
But  why  ?  Her  Light  shall  come,  and  the  glory  of  the  Lord 


244 


SERMON  II. 


shall  rise  upon  her.  The  kingdoms  of  this  world  shall  be- 
come the  kingdoms  of  our  Lord.  But  how  ?  The  King  of 
kings,  himself  shall  go  forth  conquering  and  to  conquer. 

My  Christian  friends,  could  you  triumphantly  exclaim — 
"Who  shall  separate  us  from  the  love  of  Christ,"  if  he  were 
not  more  able  than  a  fellow  mortal  to  keep  you  from  falling, — 
if  he  were  not  able  to  save  to  the  uttermost  all  that  come  to 
him  ?  Could  you  confidently  say,  "  I  am  persuaded  that  neither 
death,  nor  life,  nor  angels,  nor  principalities,  nor  powers,  nor 
things  present,  nor  things  to  come,  nor  height,  nor  depth,  nor 
any  other  creature  shall  be  able  to  separate  us  from  the  love 
of  God  which  is  in  Christ  Jesus  our  Lord ;"  if  you  could  not  as 
confidently  say  "  In  all  these  things  we  are  more  than  con- 
querors through  him  that  loved  us?"  And  you  could  not  say 
this,  if  it  were  not  for  the  infinite  power  of  Christ. 

Could  Paul  have  so  often  looked  into  the  grave  without  fear, 
if  he  had  not  expected  there  to  sleep  secure,  as  in  the  arms 
of  him  who  is  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life, — a  Being  able 
to  collect  his  scattered  dust  and  re-animate  it  at  the  last  day?" 
"I  know"  says  he  with  assurance,  "I  know  in  whom  I  have 
believed,  and  am  persuaded  that  he  is  able  to  keep  that  which 
I  have  committed  unto  him  against  that  day."  Supported  by 
the  same  assurance,  the  martyrs  of  Jesus,  in  every  age,  have 
triumphed  in  the  flames,  and  given  their  ashes  to  the  winds. 
Supported  by  this  same  assurance,  my  Christian  friends,  why 
should  you  shudder  at  the  darkness  and  corruption  of  the 
tomb? 

The  infinite  justice  of  their  Judge  is  a  subject  of  consola- 
tion to  the  righteous.  They  feel  that  the  interests  of  the  uni- 
verse are  safe  in  his  hands,  and  that  *no  individual  can  be 
wronged  in  the  retributions  of  eternity.  Though  they  are 
far  from  expecting  to  be  justified  on  their  own  account-,  yet 
they  cannot  but  rejoice  that  in  their  justification  respect  is  had 
to  the  perfect  righteousness  of  their  divine  substitute,  so  that 
the  immutable  principles  of  justice  are  not  sacrificed  to  de- 
liver  them  from  condemnation. 


SERMON    II.  345 

Yet  they  are  deeply  conscious,  that  they  all  the  while  de- 
erve  to  be  condemned ;  and  that,  therefore,  their  only  refuge 
from  impending  wrath,  is  in  the  infinite  mercy  of  their  Judge. 
In  this,  then,  they  have  an  overflowing  source  of  joy.  From 
it  they  receive  their  present  blessings,  and  on  it  they  build 
their  hopes  of  everlasting  happiness ;  they  look  to  it  for  the 
smile  of  forgiveness  here,  and  the  sentence  of  welcome  into 
the  abodes  of  glory  hereafter ;  and  in  the  God  of  their  salva- 
tion is  their  chief  delight,  till  they  see  him  as  he  is  in  the  world 
above,  where  is  fulness  of  joy,  and  sit  down  at  his  right  hand, 
where  are  pleasures  forever  more. 

III.  The  enemies  of  Christ  have  reason  to  tremble  at  the 
thought  that  he  is  their  Judge. 

They  have  reason  to  tremble  at  the  infinite  knowledge  of 
their  Judge.  They  cannot  sin  without  his  notice.  They 
cannot  hide  one  sinful  action,  nor  one  sinful  thought;  not 
even  the  most  secret  desires  of  their  hearts.  What  says  the 
Judge  of  the  world  ?  "  I  am  he  ihat  searcheth  the  heart,  and 
trieth  the  reins."  He  sees  the  deeds  of  darkness ;  writes  them 
down,  and  seals  them  up  to  be  reviewed  at  the  judgment. 
Wherever  sinners  go,  his  eye  follows  them.  Should  not  this 
make  them  tremble?  When  tempted  to  sin,  let  them  stop  and 
reflect.  Let  them  not  listen  to  the  suggestion,  that  they  are 
alone — no  eye  seeth  them.  Let  them  remember,  that  the 
transgression  is  no  sooner  committed,  than  it  is  marked  in  the 
court  of  Heaven. 

When  arraigned  at  the  bar  of  Christ,  the  hearts  of  his  ene- 
mies will  shrink  and  die  within  them  before  that  eye  as  a 
flame  of  fire  penetrating  all  disguises,  shining  into  their  in- 
most recesses,  and  discovering  the  pollution  hid  in  every 
corner.  O  what  disclosures  will  then  be  made !  We  shall 
be  let  into  a  new  world,  my  hearers;  into  the  mysteries  of 
the  human  breast. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  many,  considering  the  day  of  judg- 
ment as  a  day  of  great  tumult  and  confusion,  indulge  an  in- 
definite but  deceitful  hope,  that  in  some  way  or  other,  at  least 
one  solitary  person    may  escape  unnoticed,  and  voluntarily 


246  SERMON    II. 

sink  into  oblivion.  They  do  not  venture  to  give  this  hope  a 
distinct  form.  But  the  human  heart  itself  is  so  subtle,  that  a 
hope  which  cannot  be  defined  is  of  all  the  most  dangerous. 
Would  that  rational  creatures  could  be  convinced  of  the  truth, 
before  it  be  too  late  to  profit  by  conviction. 

As  all  hope  of  escaping  the  knowledge  of  the  Judge  will  be 
vain,  so  will  be  all  hope  of  resisting  his  power.  Sinners  are 
now  able  to  keep  at  a  distance  from  Christ,  and  shut  their 
ears  against  his  calls ;  but  the  call  to  rise  from  their  graves 
and  come  to  judgment  they  jnust  hear  and  obey.  And,  my 
impenitent  hearers,  your  Judge  will  not  meet  you  as  a  man. 
You  have  seen  that  he  is  not  merely  the  babe  of  Bethlehem — 
not  merely  the  man  who  died  on  Calvary;  but  "he,  which 
was,  which  is,  and  which  is  to  come,  the  Almighty." 

In  vain  will  you  cry  to  the  rocks  and  mountains,  "Fall  on 
us,  and  hide  us  from  the  face  of  him  that  sitteth  on  the  tlirone, 
and  from  the  wrath  of  the  Lamb ;  for  the  great  day  of  his 
wrath  is  come,  and  who  shall  be  able  to  stemd?"  Shall  they 
who  have  not  believed  in  him  as  their  Saviour? — they,  whose 
hearts  have  not  been  won  by  all  the  shame  and  toil  and  suf- 
fering of  his  humiliation,  all  the  blessings  and  promises  of  his 
gospel,  all  the  instructions  and  entreaties  of  his  ministry'-,  and 
all  the  agonies  of  the  garden  and  the  cross  ? 

Shall  they  be  able  to  stand  before  him,  when  he  appears 
in  the  majesty  of  infinite  justice  ?  And  will  not  even  his  infi- 
nite mercy  then  be  turned  against  them  ?  Will  it  not  en- 
hance the  misery  of  their  condemnation,  to  receive  it  from 
Him  who  came  into  our  guilty  world  not  to  condemn  it,  but 
that  the  world  through  him  might  be  saved  ?  O  the  friendless 
and  hophless  destiny  of  those,  that  meet  in  their  final  Judge  a 
rejected  Redeemer!  O  to  be  reminded,  in  that  day,  of  all 
the  dying  love  of  Calvary,  of  all  the  days  of  grace  on  earth, 
and  all  the  calls  of  redeeming  mercy — to  hear  the  compas- 
sionate Jesus  say  "  I  have  called,  but  ye  refused" — how  will 
it  wring  the  heart  of  the  lost  sinner,  as  he  stands  in  expecta- 
tion of  hearing,  in  a  moment  more,  the  sentence  of  banish- 
ment down  to  the  world  of  final  despair ! 


SERMON    II,  247 

My  dear  impenitent  hearers,  Christ  has  not  yet  ascended 
the  throne  of  judgment.  He  still  keeps  the  mercy-seat  wait- 
ing to  be  gracious.  Shall  he  wait  in  vain  for  your  accept- 
ance of  him,  and  the  blessings  of  his  eternal  salvation? 
Will  you  not  let  him  see  of  the  travail  of  his  soul,  by  re- 
nouncing your  sins,  and  giving  him  your  hearts  ?  Can  you  be 
so  hardened  in  ingratitude,  as  to  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  his  entrea- 
ties, and  reject  his  offers  of  mercy  ?  If  you  can,  remember, 
though  he  bear  long  with  you,  the  day  of  vengeance  is  in  his 
heart.  He  will  not  keep  his  anger  forever.  And  what  think 
you,  must  be  the  guilt,  and  what  the  punishment  of  those  who 
sin  so  long  as  to  wear  out  the  forbearance  of  the  compassion- 
ate Jesus? 

Sport  not  thus  with  his  dying  love.  Provoke  him  not  to 
swear  in  his  wrath,  that  you  shall  never  enter  into  his  rest. 

But  "to-day,  after  so  long  a  time,  if  ye  will  hear  his  voice, 
harden  not  your  hearts."  Come  humbly  to  the  foot  of  his 
cross.  He  will  hft  you  up  and  speak  peace  to  your  troubled 
spirits,  and  fix  upon  you  a  smile  of  everlasting  love.  He  will 
pardon  all  your  sins.  He  will  call  you  friends.  He  will 
wash  you  clean,  and  array  you  in  the  white  robe  of  his  right- 
eousness. He  will  cause  all  things  to  work  together  for  your 
good.  He  will  give  unto  you  eternal  life,  and  none  shall  be 
able  to  pluck  you  out  of  his  hand.  He  will  prepare  you  by 
his  grace  to  abide  the  day  of  his  coming,  and  to  stand  whea 
he  appeareth. 

Let  us  all  watch  against  that  day:  for  in  such  an  hour  as 
we  think  not  the  Son  of  Man  cometh.  ~  "Behold  I  come 
quickly,  and  my  reward  is  with  me,  to  give  to  every  man  ac- 
cording as  his  work  shall  be." 

"Even  so,  come  Lord  Jesus.     Amen." 


SERMON  III. 


PSALM  Ivij,  7. 
"  My  heart  is  fixed,  O  God,  my  heart  is  fixed  :  1  will  sing  and  give  praise." 

The  sweet  Psalmist  of  Israel,  though  surrounded  by  the 
pageantry  of  a  throne,  and  accustomed  to  the  external  pomp 
of  the  Jewish  worship,  falls  below  few  if  any  of  the  sacred 
writers,  in  his  views  of  the  religion  of  the  heart.  He  seems 
always  to  regard  the  pure  eye  of  God  as  looking  through  this 
splendour  of  circumstances,  and  searching  the  inmost  re- 
cesses of  his  soul,  and  judging  of  the  character  of  his  actions  by 
that  of  his  motives  and  affections.  Accordingly  in  all  the  ex- 
ercises of  devotion,  he  aims  to  keep  the  heart  alive. 

When  he  comes  to  the  mercy  seat,  and  makes  confession 
of  sin,  he  feels  in  the  anguish  of  his  spirit,  the  absolute  neces- 
sity of  doing  more  than  to  bring  before  God  a  ceremonial  of- 
fering. He  says  to  the  Searcher  of  hearts,  "Thou  desirest 
not  sacrifice,  else  would  I  give  it :  thou  delightest  not  in  burnt 
offering.  The  sacrifices  of  God  are  a  broken  spirit :  a  broken 
and  a  contrite  heart,  O  God,  thou  wilt  not  despise." 

In  speaking  of  the  means  by  which  the  righteous  man  is 
enabled  to  hold  on  his  way,  he  observes — "  The  law  of  his 
God  is  in  his  heart ;  none  of  his  steps  shall  shde."  In  ad- 
dressing the  divine  Being  on  the  same  subject,  in  relation  to 
himself,  he  says,  "  Thy  word  have  I  hid  in  mine  heart,  that  I 
might  not  sin  against  thee." 

When  he  would  celebrate  the  glory  of  Zion,  and  of  her  di- 
vine King,  he  commences  as  it  were  from  the  bottom  of  his 
heart — "  My  heart  is  inditing  a  good  matter,"  that  is,  accord- 
ing to  the  meaning  of  the  original  Hebrew,  my  heart  is  gush- 


SERMON    III.  249 

ing  forth  of  its  fulness,  like  a  fountain  from  its  secret  depths. 
He  pours  it  out  in  a  stream  of  holy  love. 

In  every  strain  of  meditations  on  God,  his  works,  and  his 
laws,  and  on  the  duties  of  love,  faith,  obedience,  supplication 
and  thanksgiving,  he  brings  in  the  heart  as  the  moving  spring 
of  all. 

With  respect  to  prayer,  his  language  at  one  time,  is, "  When 
thou  saidst  seek  ye  my  face,  my  heart  said  mito  thee.  Thy 
face.  Lord,  will  I  seek  ;"  and  at  another,  "  With  my  whole 
heart  have  I  sought  thee." 

But  it  is  in  the  angelic  work  of  praise,  his  favourite  employ- 
ment, that  he  mentions  the  heart  most  frequently,  and  with 
the  strongest  emotion.  The  sum  and  spirit  of  his  language^ 
on  this  subject,  may  be  represented  in  the  exclamation,  "  I 
will  praise  thee,  O  God,  with  my  whole  heart"  and  in  that  of 
the  text,  "  My  heart  is  fixed,  O  God,  my  heai^t  is  fixed :  I 
will  sing  and  give  praise."  Though  the  hundreds  of  voices, 
the  multitude  of  musical  instruments,  and  other  circum- 
stances, in  the  acts  of  public  praise  performed  under  his  di^ 
rection,  may  seem  to  us,  who  are  accustomed  to  the  greater 
simplicity  of  Christian  worship,  to  be  calculated  to  bury  every 
devout  feeling  beneath  an  overflowing  tide  of  admiration 
or  animal  feinfour,  yet  upon  a  mind  like  his,  in  which  spiritual 
religion  habitually  maintained  her  rightful  ascendency  over 
every  thing  else,  they  produced  the  far  different  effect  of 
heightening  devotion,  and  Hfting  the  soul  to  a  more  heavenly 
elevation  above  the  world. 

We  can  be  at  no  loss  how  to  account  for  the  deep  spiritu- 
ality, manifested  in  all  the  psalms  of  David,  notwithstanding 
the  adventitious  splendour  around  him,  when  we  recollect 
that  his  heart  was  right  with  God  from  his  youth.  When 
the  prophet  Samuel,  at  the  command  of  the  Lord,  went  to 
the  house  of  Jesse,  to  anoint  one  of  his  sons  for  the  throne  of 
Israel,  the  reason  that  the  seven  eldest,  after  passing  in  suc- 
cession before  him,  were  rejected,  and  David  the  youngest 
was  chosen,  is  said  to  have  been,  "  The  Lord  seeth   not  as 

man  seeth ;  for  man  looketh  on  the  outward  appearance,  but 

32 


850  SERMON    III. 

the  Lord  looketh  on  the  heart."  The  vital  principle  of  piety, 
thus  early  implanted  in  his  breast  by  the  divine  Spirit,  and  af- 
terwards cherished  continually  by  a  large  measure  of  his  influ- 
ences, soon  exhibited  the  vigour  of  its  grow^th  in  its  all-perva- 
ding power.  By  this  sleepless  activity  of  life  in  the  heart, 
he  speedily  attained  the  stature  and  strength  of  maturity.  He 
soon  became  an  established  and  exalted  saint ;  he  rose  to  an 
eminence  reaching  far  upward  towards  heaven,  on  which  he 
stood  firmly,  when,  with  an  eye  lifted  above  the  storms  of 
earth  that  assailed  him,  he  uttered  the  strong  and  fervent  ex- 
clamation, "  My  heart  is  fixed,  O  God,  my  heart  is  fixed :  I 
will  sing,  and  give  praise." 

In  pursuing  the  theme  thus  introduced,  I  design  to  give  a 
brief  and  general  description  of  the  man  whose  heart  is  fixed 
on  God,  and  then  show  that  such  a  man  will  praise  God  in 
every  situation. 

I.  It  is  proposed,  as  the  first  thing,  to  describe  the  man 
whose  heart  is  fixed  on  God. 

The  heart  is  the  seat  of  the  affections,  the  source  of  good 
and  evil  in  moral  character,  the  fountain  of  love  to  God,  and 
of  enmity  against  him.  The  heart  is  likwise  the  seat  of  con- 
fidence and  distrust,  and  of  happiness  and  misery.  He  whose 
heart  is  set  upon  the  world,  loves  it  supremely,  places  his  trust 
upon  it,  and  looks  to  it  for  his  enjoyment ;  and  he,  whose 
heart  is  fixed  on  God,  loves  him  above  every  other  object, 
confides  in  him  entirely,  and  goes  to  him  for  happiness.  But 
supreme  love  to  God,  and  entire  confidence  in  him,  possess 
various  degrees  of  strength  in  different  persons,  and  in  the 
same  person  at  different  periods  of  life.  The  peculiar  lan- 
guage of  the  text,  taken  in  connexion  with  the  character  and 
circumstances  of  the  man  who  uttered  it,  leads  me  to  confine 
my  present  remarks  to  a  description  of  the  established  saint — 
one  who  possesses  a  high  degree  of  love  to  God,  great  de- 
light in  him,  and  great  firmness  of  faith.  In  the  passage  be- 
fore us,  the  idea  o^ fixedness  is  repeated  with  much  emphasis 
and  feeling,  and  in  this  beautiful  and  striking  manner  is  ren- 
dered prominent.     It  is   only  this  fixedness  of  love  to  God 


SERMON  III.  251 

and  reliance  upon  him,  that  will  enable  a  man,  under  all  cir- 
cumstances, to  rejoice  and  sing  praise.  He  who  possesses  it, 
regards  the  divine  Being,  at  all  times,  with  unmingled  com- 
placence. Thus  he  regards  all  the  attributes  of  the  Godhead, 
holiness  and  justice,  as  well  as  goodness  and  mercy.  He 
takes  constant  pleasure  in  contemplating  the  perfections  of 
God,  in  holding  communion  with  him,  in  following  after  him, 
and  in  rising  toward  him  in  moral  excellence.  Gratitude 
lends  him  her  wings,  to  help  him  onward  in  a  steady,  unin- 
terrupted course.  He  feels  continually  her  quickening  influ- 
ence. He  is  all  the  while  drawn  nearer  and  nearer  to  God 
by  the  cords  of  love.  Nay — he  is  bound  to  Ms  throne  with  its 
golden  chain.  God  is  all  in  all  to  his  soul.  In  him  he  has  a 
satisfying  portion  ;  and  his  affections  wander  after  no  other. 
So  firmly  is  he  united  to  God  in  love,  that  he  feels  as  if  he  had 
no  existence  but  in  him.  "  His  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God." 
"  In  him  he  lives,  and  moves,  and  has  his  being,"  as  the  child 
of  his  grace,  as  well  as  the  creature  of  his  power.  "  He  that 
dwelleth  in  love,  dwelleth  in  God,  and  God  in  him."  Through- 
out this  language,  the  idea  of  enduring  steadfastness  is  kept 
conspicuous.  It  is  language  that  can  be  applied,  in  its  high- 
est sense,  to  none  but  the  established  saint. 

In  further  describing  the  man  whose  heart  is  thus  firmly 
fixed  on  God,  I  shall  consider  him  as  exhibiting,  in  several 
ways,  the  proofs  of  his  peculiar  excellence.  The  existence 
of  direct  love  to  God,  is  often  made  evident  by  that  which  is 
indirect ;  and  the  existence  of  a  high  degree  of  the  former, 
shows  itself  by  a  high  degree  of  the  latter. 

The  man  whose  heart  is  fixed  on  God,  manifests  it,  by  an 
unwavering  adherence  to  his  truth. 

Strong  affection  for  an  absent  friend  leads  us  to  take  a 
deep  interest  in  whatever  we  hear  from  him,  particularly  in 
the  written  expressions  of  his  friendship.  The  bible  is  the  re- 
cord of  God's  love  to  men,  sent  to  them  for  their  instruction 
and  their  salvation.  It  brings  from  heaven  the  glad  tidings  of 
peace  and  good  will  to  the  world.  It  is  filled  with  truths  of 
infinite  importance  to  human  welfare.     God  exhibits  himself, 


252  SERMON    III. 

in  every  sacred  page,  as  a  being  wortiiy  of  all  that  devoted- 
iiess  of  heart  which  he  requires.  The  man  then  whose  heart 
is  fixed  on  God  will  be  firm  in  his  adherence  to  divine  truth. 
His  spiritual  edifice  will  be  erected  on  the  fundamental  doc- 
trines of  religion.  He  will  be  rooted,  and  grounded,  and 
built  up,  in  the  truth.  He  will  not  be  continually  fluctuating 
from  one  opinion  to  another.  His  mind  will  be  settled  down 
into  a  calm  of  belief,  that  nothing  can  disturb.  He  will  be 
fortified  by  the  truth  against  every  attack  of  sin  and  error. 
In  the  spirit  of  meekness  he  will  contend  earnestly  for  the 
faith  once  dehvered  to  the  saints.  He  will  feed  continually 
on  the  truth,  as  the  bread  of  life  divine  ;  and  drink  deeply 
from  its  living  springs.  It  will  be  sweeter  to  his  taste  than 
honey,  and  more  precious  in  his  sight  than  gold.  He  will  re- 
ceive from  it  a  daily  addition  to  the  strength  of  his  faith,  and 
hope,  and  joy  in  God.  With  David  he  can  exclaim,  in  ad- 
dressing his  Maker,  "  O  how  love  I  thy  law  ;  it  is  my  medita- 
tion all  the  day."  No  one  can  say  this  but  the  man  of  firm, 
enduring  piety.  Neither  can  any  but  such  a  man,  say  to 
God,  at  all  times,  "  Thy  word  is  very  pure,  therefore  thy  ser- 
vant loveth  it."  We  need  a  high  degree  of  established  holi- 
ness, always  to  love  the  word  of  God,  not  because  we  regard 
it  as  supporting  the  peculiar  tenets  of  our  sect,  nor  chiefly  on 
account  of  its  promises  of  happiness,  but  for  the  strictness  of 
its  requirements,  the  perfect  purity  of  its  doctrines  and  pre- 
cepts. It  is  this  exalted  kind  of  unwavering  adherence  to  di- 
vine truth,  that  shows  clearly  a  steadfastness  of  love  to  the 
high  and  holy  One. 

Another  way  in  which  the  man  whose  heart  is  fixed  on 
God,  manifests  it,  is  by  an  unwearied  constancy  in  his  wor- 
ship. He  suffers  no  light  thing  to  break  in  upon  the  devo- 
tions of  the  closet,  the  family,  or  the  sanctuary.  From  one 
month  to  another,  and  from  year  to  year,  every  morning  and 
evening  finds  him  on  his  knees  before  the  throne  of  mercy, 
and  every  Sabbath  finds  him  in  his  seat  in  the  temple  of  Je- 
hovah. During  the  season  of  worship,  he  permits  no  trivial 
circumstance  to  interrupt  his  heavenly  serenity,  to  render  him 


SERMON    III.  253 

languid  and  formal,  or  to  scatter  his  thoughts  and  turn  them 
into  vanity.  But  though  he  is  thus  constant  in  observing  the 
set  periods  of  devotion,  and  in  observing  them  with  a  calm 
fervour  of  soul,  he  is  not  satisfied  with  this.  He  prays  with- 
out ceasing.  In  his  daily  employments,  and  in  his  necessary 
intercourse  with  the  world,  he  carries  about  with  him  a  de- 
votional spirit,  that  falls  but  little  below  an  unbroken  com- 
munion with  God.  Such  habitual  devotion  affords  uuques- 
tionable  evidence  of  springing  from  a  heart  firmly  united  to 
the  great  object  of  its  worship. 

Again  :  the  man  whose  heart  is  fixed  on  God,  manifests  it 
by  a  steady  attachment  to  his  people. 

His  attachment  to  them  is  of  an  exalted  kind.  It  is  raised, 
and  refined,  above  that  of  natural  affection,  and  common  hu- 
manity, and  is  purified  from  the  earthly  mixtures  of  selfish- 
ness and  sectarian  partiality.  He  loves  them,  not  merely  be- 
cause they  happen  to  belong  to  the  same  family,  or  neigh- 
bourhood, or  church,  that  he  does  ;  not  merely  because  they 
coincide  with  him  in  belief,  and  feel  and  act  in  concert  with 
him ;  but  chiefly  because  they  ai-e  the  spiritual  children  of 
-God,  bear  something  of  his  moral  image,  are  redeemed  with 
the  blood  of  his  divine  Son,  and  are  loved  by  him  with  an 
everlasting  love.  This  pure  and  exalted  attachment  to  his 
brethren,  the  established  saint  feels  in  a  liigh  degree,  and  with 
unchanging  constancy.  He  suffers  it  not  to  be  interrupted 
by  a  word  or  a  look,  nor  by  great  and  repeated  personal  of^ 
fences.  In  him  it  becomes  that  charity,  which  suffereth  long, 
and  is  not  easily  provoked,  which  beareth  all  things,  and 
never  faileth.  "If  we  love  one  another,"  says  the  apostle 
John  to  his  christian  brethren,  "  God  dwelleth  in  us,  and  his 
love  is  perfected  in  us." 

Another  way,  in  which  the  man,  whose  heart  is  fixed  on 
God,  manifests  it,  is  by  uninterrupted  faithfulness  in  his  ser- 
vice. He  is  not  contented  with  engaging  in  this  heavenly 
employment  only  at  intervals,  in  seasons  when  he  is  under 
the  excitement  of  peculiar  circumstances.  He  does  not 
grow  weary  of  it,  on  account  of  the  exertion  and  self-denial 


254  SERMON  III. 

which  it  requires.  He  is  not  driven  from  it  by  the  frowns 
of  the  world,  nor  seduced  from  it  by  her  flatteries.  He  is 
not  disheartened  in  it,  by  the  want  of  immediate  or  continu- 
al successs,  or  that  degree  of  it  answering  to  his  expectations. 
He  does  not  pursue  it  for  a  time,  in  order  to  purchase  the  in- 
dulgence of  spending  the  remainder  of  life  in  serving  himself. 
He  looks  forward  to  no  day  of  rest  on  earth.  He  feels  that 
there  will  be  rest  enough  in  the  eternity  of  heaven.  While 
here  he  labours,  satisfied  with  the  certainty  of  reaping  a  full 
reward  hereafter.  Difficulties  he  expects  to  encounter,  and 
to  suffer  trials ;  but  none  of  these  things  move  him,  neither 
counts  he  his  life  dear  to  himself,  so  that  he  may  finish  his 
course  with  joy.  The  cost  of  his  undertaking  has  been  count- 
ed, his  decision  for  eternity  formed ;  and,  with  entire  willing- 
ness to  meet  the  consequences,  he  "  continues  steadfast,  un- 
moveable,  always  abounding  in  the  work  of  the  Lord." 

Again:  the  man  whose  heart  is  fixed  on  God,  manifests  it 
by  an  invariahle  interest  in  the  prospei'itij  of  his  kingdom. 
The  absolute  nature,  and  universal  extent,  of  the  divine  gov- 
ernment, are  subjects  of  continual  joy  to  his  soul.  But  he 
takes  a  peculiar  delight  in  the  enlargement,  and  glory  of  that 
reign  of  righteousness  and  peace,  through  Christ  Jesus,  estab- 
lished in  this  fallen  world.  This  delight,  pure  in  kind,  and 
great  in  measure,  is  also  uniform  in  duration.  It  does  not 
burst  into  a  flame  at  one  time,  and  die  away  into  nothingness 
at  another.  The  interest  that  he  takes  in  the  success  of  di- 
vine truth,  the  spread  of  the  gospel,  and  the  conversion  of 
sinners,  is  not  a  transient  passion,  but  an  abiding  principle. 
It  does  not  rise  to  enthusiasm  to-day,  and  sink  into  indifler- 
ence  to-morrow.  It  is  not  a  paroxysm  of  feeling,  that  works 
up  his  mind  to  the  sudden  resolution  of  making  sacrifices 
of  which  he  soon  repents,  and  entering  upon  undertakings  in 
which  he  soon  comes  to  a  stand.  It  is  not  the  occasional  fer- 
vour of  a  heated  imagination,  under  the  influence  of  which  he 
for  a  while  sees  visions  of  glory  in  the  prospects  of  Zion,  and 
seems  to  be  looking  for  the  new  heavens  and  earth  to  burst 
upon  his  view,  and  afterwards  shuts  his  eyes  in  sleep,  or  turns 


SERMON  III. 


355 


them  away  from  these  coming  realities,  to  cast  them  on  the 
fleeting  shadows  around  him.  It  is  a  hght  of  the  mind  and 
a  warmth  of  the  heart  blended  in  one  steady  flame,  which 
leads  his  eye  onward  continually  to  the  future  enlargement 
and  beauty  of  the  church,  and  keeps  it  fixed  on  these  objects, 
with  the  calm  expectation  of  faith  in  the  promises  of  an  immuta- 
God.  .  This  enduring  interest  in  the  prosperity  of  Zion,  enters 
so  deeply  into  all  his  habits  of  thinking  and  feeling  and  acting, 
and  is  so  much  a  constituent  part  of  his  character,  as  to  be- 
come his  own  interest.  In  the  daily  supplications  of  his  clos- 
et and  his  family,  and  in  his  constant  breathings  of  silent  de- 
votion, he  remembers,  in  intimate  connexion  with  his  desires 
for  blessings  on  himself,  he  always  remembers,  to  pray  that 
the  kingdom  of  his  divine  Saviour  may  come,  in  the  fulness  of 
its  extent  and  glory.  To  hasten  its  coming,  he  is  steadfast  in 
the  systematic  employment  of  the  means,  that  Heaven  has 
put  into  his  hands.  His  labours  and  charities  have  the  regu- 
lar flow  of  smooth  and  peaceful  streams  sent  forth  from  a 
perennial  fountain.  Thus  in  all  that  he  does  for  the  good  of 
the  church,  there  is  a  consistent  uniformity,  which  could  pro- 
ceed from  no  other  source  but  the  deep  interest  of  unfailing 
love. 

Once  more :  the  man  whose  heart  is  fixed  on  God,  mani- 
fests it  hy  a  ijerpetual  regard  to  his  glory.  In  all  that  he 
does,  the  honour  of  his  Maker  and  Redeemer  must  be  pro- 
moted, or  he  is  not  satisfied.  He  has  acquired  the  habit  of 
always  regarding  this  as  paramount  to  every  other  consider- 
ation. He  rejoices  in  the  conversion  of  sinners,  chiefly  be- 
cause God  is  glorified  by  the  power  of  his  Spirit,  and  the  rich- 
ness of  his  grace,  in  their  deliverance  from  the  slavery  of  sin 
and  the  condemnation  of  hell,  and  in  their  admittance  into 
the  mansions  of  everlasting  purity  and  bliss.  He  delights  in 
the  spread  of  divine  truth,  because  it  carries  with  it,  in  every 
direction,  the  honour  of  its  Author.  He  rejoices  in  the  diflfu- 
sion  of  this  light  that  shines  down  from  heaven,  because  it 
reflects  up  to  heaven  the  glorj"^  of  its  eternal  Source.  He  de- 
sires to  have  the  boundaries  of  Zion  widened,  on  the  right 


256  SERMON  III. 

hand  and  on  the  left,  till  they  reach  round  the  globe,  and 
take  in  the  M'liole  of  its  population,  that  the  name  of  her  king 
may  be  regarded  with  universal  homage,  and  that  he  may 
reign  in  the  midst  of  her,  crowned  with  all  honour  and  glory, 
and  surrounded  with  the  multiplied  trophies  of  his  all-con- 
quering grace.  He  longs  to  have  heaven  opened  to  receive 
him  at  last,  that  he  may  behold  the  blaze  of  glory  that  encir- 
cles the  throne  of  God  and  the  Lamb,  and  fills  the  celestial 
regions  with  a  light,  above  that  of  the  sun  and  the  moon  for- 
ever. There  he  expects  to  see  the  glory  of  God  collected 
into  an  ocean,  in  which  every  thing  else  will  be  swallowed 
up  and  lost.  This  prevailing  regard  to  the  honour  of  the  di- 
vine Being,  is  a  striking  trait  of  character  in  the  saint  of  es- 
tablished eminence — a  trait,  that  appears  conspicuous  in  his 
daily  prayers,  and  conversation,  and  conduct ;  pervades  all 
his  opinions,  and  practices  ;  and  seems  wrought  into  the  very 
essence  of  all  his  religion — a  trait,  that  distinguishes  him  not 
only  from  the  men  of  the  world,  but  from  those  who  occupy 
the  common  level  within  the  precincts  of  holy  ground.  It 
makes  him  like  David,  who,  in  the  short  psalm  from  which 
the  text  is  taken,  exclaims  twice,  "Be  thou  exalted,  O  God 
above  the  heavens  ;  let  thy  glory  be  above  all  the  earth." 

Having  now  given  a  summary  sketch  of  the  character  of 
the  man  whose  heart  is  fixed  on  God,  I  proceed  to  show  as 
was  proposed, 

H.  That  such  a  man  will  praise  God  in  every  situation. 

The  fixedness  of  heait,  the  stability  of  godliness,  which  has 
been  spread  out  before  us,  forms  the  basis,  on  which  the  re- 
marks under  this  head  are  to  be  built.  To  some  it  may,  at 
the  first  thought,  seem  altogether  unnecessary  to  stop  here, 
to  say  that  such  a  man,  as  we  have  been  contemplating,  will 
rejoice  in  God,  and  praise  him,  in  the  midst  of  prosperity,  in 
the  calmness  and  sunshine  of  life,  in  the  vigour  of  health,  and 
with  exhilarating  spirits,  when  every  thing  around  him  wears 
a  smiling  aspect,  and  the  bounties  of  providence  are  poured 
into  his  lap,  and  friends  are  numerous  and  faithful,  when  he 
is  crowned  with  present  blessings,  and  the  wearisome  days 


SERMON  III.  257 

and  nights  of  sickness,  the  pangs  of  death,  and  the  darkness 
of  the  tomb,  appear  to  be  distant.  Some  may  be  ready  to 
exclaim,  Why  should  he  not  sing  praises  to  God  in  such  cir- 
cumstances ?  and  who  else,  with  the  least  sense  of  obligation 
to  divine  goodness,  would  not  do  the  same  ?  Notwithstand- 
ing the  theoretical  wisdom  of  these  inquiries,  a  shght  view  of 
Christian  experience  will  justify  the  remark,  that  it  is  no  weak 
and  wavering  piety  which  can  always  pass  safely  through  the 
trial  of  worldly  prosperity,  incessantly  prompting  the  songs 
of  gratitude.  A  fulness  of  earthly  good,  instead  of  naturally 
producing,  in  every  Christian,  a  corresponding  measure  of 
love  to  the  Giver,  has  in  many  a  tendency  to  draw  their  af- 
fections down  from  him,  and  fix  them  on  the  dust  at  their 
feet,  or  send  them  wandering  after  the  phantoms  of  honour 
and  pleasure.  Amidst  a  profusion  of  temporal  blessings,  a 
settled  principle  of  love  to  God,  and  an  established  habit  of 
reliance  upon  him,  are  needed,  to  keep  the  heart  free  from  all 
idolatry  and  vanity,  and  swelling  with  emotions  of  joyful 
thanksgiving. 

Every  situation  in  life,  every  variety  of  circumstances,  has 
its  peculiar  temptations,  calling  for  great  fixedness  of  heart 
on  God,  that  the  soul  may  always  rejoice  in  him,  and  the  lips 
be  constant  in  his  praise.  While  the  dead  calm  of  worldly 
prosperity  is  unfavourable  to  the  cheerful  progress  of  the  soul 
toward  its  destined  haven,  the  storm  of  adversity  is  calculat- 
ed to  drive  it  aside  from  its  direct  course,  to  fill  it  with  dis- 
tress, or  sink  it  in  despondency.  This  is  often,  for  a  time, 
its  lamentable  effect  on  the  weak  and  wavering  in  heart. 

It  is  more  particularly  my  object,  at  present,  to  show  that 
the  man,  whom  we  have  been  contemplating,  will  continue  to 
praise  God  in  all  the  adverse  circumstances  of  life,  in  the  midst 
of  afflictions  and  hardships.  I  am  led  to  take  this  particular 
view  of  the  subject,  by  the  situation  of  David  when  he  utter- 
ed the  exclamation  of  the  text.  He  was  beset  by  determin- 
ed enemies,  who  were  plotting  to  destroy  him.  Some  were 
urged  on  by  the  restless  corrodings  of  envy,  some  by  the  set- 
tled malignity  of  hatred,  and  others  by  the  bhnd  impulse  of 

33 


SERMON    III. 

factious  passion  ;  but  all  were  united  in  hunting  his  hfe,  as 
they  would  that  of  a  hart  upon  the  mountains ;  so  that  he 
cries  out,  in  a  verse  or  two  before  the  text,  "  My  soul  is  among 
lions, — whose  teeth  are  spears  and  arrows,  and  their  tongue 
a  sharp  sword,"  He  was  driven  from  his  house,  from  the 
holy  and  beloved  city  of  his  habitation,  and  from  the  quiet 
possession  of  the  throne  given  to  him  directly  by  God,  and 
forced  to  seek  a  refuge  in  the  thickets  of  the  wilderness  and 
caves  of  the  rocks,  to  become  a  homeless  wanderer  beyond 
the  dwellings  of  men.  But  under  the  pressure  of  all  these 
hardships,  instead  of  sinking  into  despair  and  closing  his  lips 
in  joyless  silence,  or  uttering  complaints  against  the  allot- 
ments of  Providence,  or  spending  his  breath  in  fruitless  sighs 
over  the  miseries  of  his  life,  he  breaks  out  into  songs  of  tri- 
umphant gladness  and  praise.  While  around  him  all  is  dark 
and  tumultuous,  all  is  bright  and  peaceful  within.  His  soul 
is  at  rest  with  the  fulness  of  its  hidden  enjoyments,  while  his 
tongue  moves  with  the  notes  of  adoration  and  thanksgiving. 
What  now  is  the  great  source  of  his  joy  and  his  praise,  that 
continues  thus  active  in  circumstances  of  such  disheartening 
power  ?  A  devout  acknowledgement  of  his  own  furnishes 
the  true  answer.  He  says  to  the  God  of  heaven,  "  All  my 
springs  are  in  thee."  He  begins  the  psalm,  in  which  the  text 
occurs,  with  the  language  of  supplication,  followed  by  strong 
expressions  of  confidence  and  love  :  "  Be  merciful  unto  me, 
O  God,  be  merciful  unto  me  :  for  my  soul  trusteth  in  thee  : 
yea,  in  the  shadow  of  thy  wings  will  I  make  my  refuge,  until 
these  calamities  be  overpast."  He  next  proceeds  to  mention 
the  severity  and  multitude  of  his  calamities,  bringing  in  occa- 
sional protestations  of  faith  and  holy  devotedness,  till  he  comes 
to  the  triumphant  exclamation,  "  My  heart  is  fixed,  O  God, 
my  heart  is  fixed  :  I  will  sing  and  give  praise."  Thus  sud- 
denly he  turns  away  from  his  suflferings,  from  himself,  and 
from  the  world,  rises  above  them  all,  and  with  all  put  out  of 
sight,  with  nothing  but  God  in  view,  he  mounts  with  the  im- . 
pulse  of  new  liberty,  to  the  empyreal  region  of  devotion.  He 
does  sing,  and  give  praise  :    "  Awake  up  my  glory  ;  awake 


SERMON    III.  259 

psaltery  and  harp  :  I  myself  will  awake  early.  I  will  praise 
thee,  O  Lord,  among  the  people  :  I  will  sing  unto  thee  among 
the  nations.  For  thy  mercy  is  great  unto  the  heavens,  and 
thy  truth  unto  the  clouds.  Be  thou  exalted,  O  God,  above 
the  heavens  :  let  thy  glory  be  above  all  the  earth." 

How  clearly  does  this  lofty  strain  of  praises,  sung  in  the 
midst  of  deadly  enemies,  rise  directly  from  a  holy  fixedness 
of  heart.  And  if  such  be  the  truth  in  this  instance,  it  is  ra- 
tional to  infer,  that  whenever  the  same  cause  exists  in  similar 
circumstances,  an  effect  essentially  the  same  will  follow. 

Similar  circumstances  are  often  found.  Eveiy  child  of 
God  is  encompassed  with  spiritual  foes  combined  to  harrass, 
and  if  possible,  to  destroy  him.  His  own  natural  appetites 
and  passions,  the  world  with  its  various  temptations,  Satan 
with  his  snares  and  fiery  darts,  pursue  him  with  unyielding 
hostility.  With  this  formidable  band  he  has  to  maintain  a 
perpetual  warfare.  At  one  time  he  is  called  upon  to  make 
open  resistance,  at  another,  to  retire  out  of  the  way  hi  cau- 
tious silence.  Now  he  must  meet  the  enemy  face  to  face, 
and  now  escape  for  his  life.  This  incessant  conflict  with  sin 
is  the  great  trial  of  earth,  entering  deeply  into  all  the  rest, 
extending  through  all  the  degrees  of  Christian  improvement, 
and  over  all  the  varieties  of  human  condition.  To  this  uni- 
versal trial  add  others  that  are  more  particular,  many  of  the 
smaller  ones  and  some  of  the  greater,  both  of  which  fall  to 
the  lot  of  every  saint ;  add  the  loss  of  worldly  good,  that  of 
property,  of  health,  or  of  friends ;  add  the  pressure  of  pover- 
ty amid  the  wants  of  a  helpless  family,  or  the  destruction  of 
domestic  order  by  the  conduct  of  rebellious  children,  or  the 
return  of  evil  for  good,  from  an  ungrateful  world,  or  the  la- 
bours and  hardships  of  apostolic  self-denial ;  add  the  failure 
of  many  a  benevolent  enterprise,  the  departure  of  God's  most 
eminent  servants  in  the  height  of  their  usefulness,  and  that  of 
personal  relatives  and  friends  in  the  prime  of  affection,  the  un- 
interrupted pains  of  long  lingering  sickness,  the  sufferings  of 
violent  disease,  or  the  multiplied  infirmities  of  old  age,  then 
add  to  the  end,  the  descent  into  the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow 


260  SERMON  III. 

of  death,  and  still  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that,  under  any,  or 
any  number  of  these  trials,  the  man  whose  heart  is  fixed  on 
God  can  and  will  rejoice  and  give  praise.  Did  not  Paul  en- 
dure the  loss  of  all  things,  and  still  count  it  all  joy  ?  Through 
the  midst  of  perils  by  land  and  by  sea,  in  the  wilderness  and 
among  the  heathen,  through  hunger  and  thirst,  cold  and  na- 
kedness, watchings  and  fastings,  shipwrecks,  and  stripes,  and 
dungeons,  and  deaths,  he  goes  on  with  undeviating  steadfast- 
ness, and  triumphant  joy  ;  as  it  were,  exclaiming  with  every 
breath,  "  My  heart  is  fixed,  O  God,  my  heart  is  fixed  ;  I  will 
sing  and  give  praise."  In  his  contest  with  principalities  and 
powers,  with  the  rulers  of  the  darkness  of  this  world,  with 
spiritual  wickedness  in  high  places,  with  the  law  in  his  mem- 
bers, and  with  the  whole  body  of  death,  he  sings,  "  Thanks 
be  to  God,  who  giveth  us  the  victory  through  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ."  And  when  he  draws  nigh  to  death,  he  looks  back 
on  the  world,  and  sings  with  holy  exultation,  "  I  have  fought 
a  good  fight,  I  have  finished  my  course,  I  have  kept  the  faith," 
then  adds,  as  he  turns  and  looks  into  eternity,  "  henceforth 
there  is  laid  up  for  me  a  crown  of  glory."  Such  was  Paul's 
fixedness  of  heart ;  and  so  unceasing  were  his  joy  and  praise. 
In  these  sublime  attainments  most  of  the  apostles  and  martyrs 
bore  to  him  a  near  resemblance.  They  took  joyfully  the 
spoiling  of  their  goods,  in  the  tortures  of  persecution  thanked 
God  that  they  were  counted  worthy  to  suffer  for  the  name 
of  Christ,  and  in  the  flames  of  the  stake  breathed  out  their 
spirits  in  notes  of  praise.  Surely  then  if  Christians  of  the 
present  day  have  any  fixedness  of  heart  on  God,  they  can 
triumph  in  him,  with  anthems  of  gratitude  and  adoration,- in 
all  their  light  afflictions.  The  missionary  of  the  present  day 
can  do  it.  And  he  does.  Who  that  contemplates  the  devot- 
ed Martyn,  travelling  over  the  burning  plains  of  Persia  to 
open  the  word  of  life  to  its  inhabitants,  and  listens  to  his  fear- 
less defence  of  the  truth  before  the  chief  priest  of  Mahommed, 
and  his  exclamations  of  confidence  and  delight  in  God,  as  he 
wastes  away  and  sinks  into  his  grave  far  off  from  every  earth- 
ly friend,  docs  not  seem  to  hear  him  repeating  continually 


SERMON  III.  261 

"  My  heart  is  fixed,  O  God,  My  heart  is  fixed  ;  I  will  sing 
and  give  praise  ?"  But  he  stands  not  alone  on  this  eminence 
of  devotion  ;  nor  is  he  surrounded  by  those  only,  whose  pub- 
lic labours  make  them  extensively  known  and  long  remem- 
bered. The  private  Christian  in  the  humblest  condition,  if 
he  possess  the  same  stability  of  heai't-felt  godliness,  will  rise 
to  the  same  constancy  of  joy  and  praise,  under  the  more  com- 
mon trials  of  life,  and  even  in  that  which  closes  the  scene  of 
mortality,  dissolving  the  ties  of  body  and  spirit,  and  those  of 
social  affection,  blotting  out  from  the  view  every  thing  be- 
neath the  sun,  and  openmg  the  eyes  on  the  realities  of  the 
eternal  world.  All  of  us  have  seen  the  Chi'istian  possessing 
such  unshaken  confidence  in  God,  as  to  be  able  to  rejoice  with 
thanksgiving,  under  the  accumulated  ills  of  poverty  or  pro- 
tracted sickness,  in  the  midst  of  repeated  family  bereavements, 
or  in  the  struggles  of  nature  with  his  last  enemy.  We  may 
have  known  of  instances,  in  which  the  spirit  has  grown  more 
vigorous  with  the  faihng  and  sinking  of  the  flesh  ;  and  its  con- 
flict with  sin,  with  the  world,  and  the  powers  of  darkness  has 
seemed  to  be  over  ;  and  its  triumph  celebrated  alone  with  its 
great  Deliverer,  upon  ground  entirely  won  on  this  side  of  the 
grave  ;  ground  possessing  so  much  of  the  hallowed  security 
of  heaven,  that  earthly  enemies  can  approach,  only  just  near 
enough,  to  witness,  in  impotent  dismay,  their  own  defeat,  and 
hear,  to  their  confusion,  the  songs  of  heaven's  exultation  an- 
ticipated below.*  Such  emotions  of  joy  have  often  been 
felt,  and  such  strains  of  celestial  music  sung,   in  the  dying 

*  The  devoted  missionary  to  Palestine,  who  lately  died  in  Egypt,  leaving^ 
behind  bim  a  mourner  in  every  acquaintance,  and  every  friend  to  piety 
in  her  loveliest  form,  gives  utterance  to  his  feelings,  but  a  day  or  two  be 
fore  his  death,  in  the  following  language  :  '  My  mortal  frame  is  growing 
weaker  and  weaker,  and  is  just  ready  to  dissolve  into  dust  ;  but  my  im- 
mortal spirit  grows  more  and  more  vigorous,  and  is  about  to  take  wing 
from  its  prison  of  flesh  :  the  world  is  fading  away,  and  receding  from  my 
view;  while  heaven  is  coming  nearer,  and  growing  brighter  :  the  world 
will  soon  vanish  forever,  and  all  will  soon  be  heaven.' 

Many  a  time,  has  the  death-bed  been  a  scene  of  triumph  like  this. 


262 


SERMON  III. 


hour.     Such  things  have  often  been  ;  and  they  will  continue, 
and  be  multiplied,  till  the  end  of  time. 

From  the  view,  now  taken  of  this  subject,  we  are  led  to 
several  interesting  reflections. 

I.  It  is  of  great  importance,  to  human  happiness,  to  have 
the  heart  fixed  on  God. 

In  such  a  world  as  this,  so  filled  with  changes  and  afflic- 
tions, and  perils,  how  much  do  we  need  a  deep  source  of 
joy  that  will  not  fail  in  every  trying  hour  ;  one  that  will  last 
through  all  the  days  of  darkness,  for  they  are  many  ;  one  that 
we  can  carry  with  us  into  the  hut  of  poverty,  the  house  of 
mourning,  the  chamber  of  sickness, — into  the  field  of  holy 
warfare,  into  all  the  labours  and  sacrifices  of  the  divine  life» 
into  all  of  the  distressing  and  dispiriting  scenes,  through 
wiiich  we  may  have  to  pass  in  our  pilgrimage  below,  and 
finally  into  the  dark  valley  at  the  end,  there  to  give  light,  to 
sustain,  and  to  cheer.  We  need  more  than  a  weak  and  wa- 
vering faith,  more  than  a  cold  and  inconstant  love.  We  need 
that  warmth  and  vigour  of  piety,  that  fixedness  of  heart, 
which  has  been  described.  And,  blessed  be  God,  it  is  with- 
in our  reach.  This  settled  principle  of  happiness,  that  will 
not  vary  with  every  change  of  external  circumstances,  may 
be  possessed  by  all,  that  pant  after  it  as  their  only  sure  de- 
pendence. 

As  then,  my  hearers,  you  value  a  source  of  joy,  that  will 
not  fail,  and  leave  you  desolate,  aim  at  a  high  degree  of  con- 
sistent stedfastness  in  piety.  Be  solicitous,  not  merely  to 
have  your  feet  taken  out  of  the  miry  clay  and  horrible  pit, 
and  set  upon  a  rock,  but  also  to  have  your  goings  established 
thereon,  that  the  new  song  of  praise  to  God  may  not  only 
be  put  into  your  lips,  but  be  continued  there,  through  life,  and 
through  death,  till  it  end  in  the  song  of  Moses  and  the  Lamb 
in  heaven. 

II.  To  praise  God  with  a  heart  fixed  on  him,  is  the  most 
exalted  employment. 

All  praise  must  be  the  sincere  expression  of  the  heart's 
warm  feelings,  in  order  to  reach  the  ear  of  him  who  reigns  in 


SERMON  III.  263 

the  heavens.     When  we  speak  the  praises  of  God,  when  we 
utter  them  in  our  solemn  addresses  to  his  throne,   and  no  less 
when  we  sing  them,   the  fire  of  devotion  must  burn  within, 
or  our  words  and  sweet  tones  will  vanish  into  air,   and  leave 
us  far  as   ever  from  God,   and  under  the  guilt  of  mocking 
him.     An  apostle  exhorts  his  christian  brethren  "  to  be  filled 
with  the  spirit,  speaking  to  themselves  in  psalms  and  hymns 
and  spiritual  songs,  singing,  and  making  melody  in  their  hearts 
to  the  Lord."      This  melody  of  the  heart,  inspired  by  a  ful- 
ness of  divine  influence,  is  the  essence  of  all  acceptable  praise. 
Without  it  there  may  be,  in  the  music  of  the  sanctuary,  much 
to  delight  the  ear,  to  send  along  the  nerves   a  thrilling  sensa- 
tion of  pleasure,  to  kindle  the  animal  feehngs  to  a  living  glow, 
and  elevate  the  imagination  above  the   grossness  and  bitter- 
ness of  earth,  but  there  will  be  nothing  to  please  the  Searcher 
of  hearts,  nothing  to  gain  his  everlasting  smile.      It  is  from  a 
bosom  ever  swelling  with  the  fulness  oflove,  that  the  seraph's 
lips  pour  forth  a  continual  stream  of  melody.     To  sing  praise 
with  a  heart  fixed  on  God,  is,  of  all  employments  on  earth, 
the  most  heavenly.      Such  praise  is  the  odour   of  burnt  in- 
cense, that  rises  nearest  to  the  throne  above.      It  is  an  act  of 
devotion,  in  which  the  soul  makes  its  nearest  approach  to  the 
great  object  of  worship.      It  is  a  sacrifice,  in  which,  as  in 
that  of  Manoah,  the  man  turns  into  an  angel,  takes  wing,  and 
ascends  in  the  flame.      While  in  prayer  the  divine  Being  is 
brought  down  to  us  in  the  manifestations   of  his  mercy,  in 
praise  we  are  borne  up  to  him  in  our  thoughts  and  affections. 
In  every  age  of  the  world,  to  give  praise  to  God  has  been  the 
delight  of  his  most  eminent  servants.      In  all  those  parts  of 
the  sacred  volume,  that  are  strictly  devotional,  the  leading  and 
prominent  thing  is  praise.      In  this  angelic  work,   the  royal 
psalmist  pours  forth  his  whole  soul,  in  the  overflowings  of  a 
full  inspiration.     Again   and   again  does  he  exclaim,  "  I  will 
praise  thee,  O  God,  with  my  whole  heart ;    while  I  live,    will 
I  praise  the  Lord  ;  I  will  sing  praises  unto  my  God,  while  I 
have  any   being" — and,    "  O  that  all  men  would   praise  the 
Lord  for  his  goodness,  and  for  his  wonderful   works  to  the 


264  SERMON  III. 

children  of  men  !"  He  calls  upon  his  soul,  and  all  that  is 
within  him,  to  wake  up,  and  engage  with  intense  activity  in 
this  exalted  employment.  He  calls  upon  every  thing  animate 
and  inanimate  to  bear  a  part  in  it.  He  calls  upon  the  angels 
of  heaven  and  the  inhabitants  of  earth,  the  sun,  moon,  and 
stars,  the  elements  in  all  their  variety,  the  mountains  and 
forests,  vallies  and  floods,  beasts  and  flying  fowls,  and  every 
thing  that  hath  breath,  to  praise  the  Lord.  He  gives  life  to 
every  object  around  him,  and  to  every  one  a  voice  to  join  in 
the  general  song.  The  heavens  and  earth  form  one  grand 
temple,  and  all  the  creatures  and  works  of  Jehovah  contain- 
ed within,  are  his  willing  or  involuntary  worshippers. 

HI.  The  final  praises  of  heaven  will  be  infinitely  great. 

In  the  history  of  revelation  there  are  four  grand  periods, 
in  which  heaven  has  been  opened  to  the  eye  of  inspiration  ; 
and,  at  each  period,  the  sound  of  celestial  praise  has  come 
down  to  our  world.  When  the  foundations  of  the  earth  were 
laid,  "  the  morning  stars  sang  together,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 
shouted  for  joy."  When  the  babe  of  Bethlehem  was  born,  a 
multitude  of  the  heavenly  host  appeared  in  the  sky,  singing 
"  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  peace  on  earth,  and  good  will 
to  men."  In  a  vision  of  Saint  John,  in  which  he  beheld  the 
downfall  of  Antichrist,  he  heard  the  voice  of  a  great  multitude 
in  heaven,  singing,  "  Alleluiah  ;  for  the  Lord  God  omnipotent 
reigneth."  And  in  another  vision  of  the  upper  world,  in  its 
full  glory,  after  the  consummation  of  all  things,  he  hears  the 
myriads  of  the  redeemed  singing,  "  Worthy  is  the  Lamb  that 
was  slain,  to  receive  power,  and  riches,  and  wisdom,  and 
strength,  and  honour,  and  glory,  and  blessing." 

Thus  has  the  praise  of  God  been  the  employment  of  hea- 
ven in  past  ages,  and  will  continue  to  be  in  the  ages  to  come. 

And,  brethren,  if  a  heart  fixed  on  God  will  enable  us  to  re- 
joice and  give  praise  under  all  the  trials  of  this  vale  of  tears, 
this  world  of  sin,  and  darkness,  and  sorrow,  and  death,  how 
will  it  fit  us  to  rejoice  and  give  praise  in  that  world  where  all 
tears  shall  be  wiped  away,  and  all  shall  be  bright,  and  holy, 
and  happy,  and  everlasting. 


SERMON  III. 


205 


If  a  fixedness  of  heart  on  God  could  make  Paul,  and  Silas, 
amid  the  horrors  of  a  dungeon,  and  at  the  gloomy  hour  of 
midnight,  forget  the  pain  of  their  stripes,  and  sing  praises  so 
as  to  turn  their  darkness  into  day,  and  bring  an  angel  from 
heaven  to  unloose  their  chains,  and  throw  open  their  prison 
doors — and  if  the  same  fixedness  of  heart  often  enables  the 
servants  of  Christ,  with  like  joy  and  triumph,  to  cast  off"  the 
fetters  of  mortality,  and  break  away  from  this  dungeon  of 
earth,  and  change  its  gloom  into  the  eternal  light  of  heaven, 
how  will  it  prepare  them  to  exult  and  smg,  when  they  shall 
walk  at  liberty  in  the  paradise  of  God. 

If  the  children  of  Israel,  after  being  delivered  from  the  host 
of  Pharaoh  by  a  passage  through  the  Red  Sea,  could  unite  in 
a  song  of  triumphant  thanksgiving,  though  a  wilderness  lay 
before  them,  how  will  all  the  chosen  people  of  God  lift  up 
their  voices  in  shouts  of  victory  and  praise,  when  they  shall 
be  delivered  from  their  pursuing  enemies  by  a  passage 
through  the  river  of  death,  opened  by  the  hand  of  their  divine 
Leader,  and  their  feet  are  planted  firm  on  the  shores  of  im- 
mortahty,  and  a  paradise  unfading  and  interminable  spreads 
out  before  them. 

When  the  children  of  Israel  from  all  parts  of  Judea,  as- 
cended their  sacred  mount  to  worship  in  their  holy  and  beau- 
tiful temple,  they  went  up  singing  as  they  went ;  and  when 
they  all  stood  together  before  the  Lord,  the  praise  was  great. 
If,  like  them,  the  people  of  God,  of  all  generations,  and  from 
all  quarters  of  the  globe,  can  go  singing  through  all  their  pil- 
grimage, up  to  the  temple  above,  how  great  beyond  concep- 
tion will  be  the  praise,  when  all  the  ransomed  of  the  liOrd 
shall  return  from  their  earthly  wanderings,  and  come  home 
to  the  heavenly  Zion  with  songs,  and  everlasting  joy  upon 
their  heads,  and  shall  there  obtain  joy  and  gladness,  where 
sorrow  and  sighing  shall  forever  flee  away. 

When  the  end  of  all  things  has  come, — when  these  visible 

skies  have  passed  away,  and  this  world  and  the  works  that 

are  therein  have  been  burnt  up,  and  the  new  heavens  and  the 

new  earth  have  been  commanded  into  being  amid  the  singing 

34 


^^  SERMON  III. 

and  shouting  of  all  the  sons  of  light, — and  when,  in  that  bright 
creation,  the  general  assembly  and  church  of  the  first  born, 
who  shall  be  saved  from  the  ruins  of  our  world,  shall  be  uni- 
ted to  the  innumerable  company  of  angels,  and  all  shall  be 
prepared  to  begin  together  the  work  of  eternity, — every  heart 
shall  be  wholly  fixed  on  God,  and  every  eye  directed  to  him, 
every  soul  shall  be  filled  with  his  fulness,  and  every  harp  and 
every  voice  tuned  anew,  how  will  the  pillars  of  heaven  trem- 
ble as  they  bow  and  sing  ! 

God  is  enthroned  in  the  centre  of  these  adoring  myriads  ; 
the  single  object  of  their  vision,  their  thoughts,  their  affections, 
and  their  hosannas.  Behold  him  reigning  thus  in  the  midst 
of  his  holy  and  happy  family.  Behold  him  pouring  forth 
fft)m  his  throne  to  heaven's  utmost  boundaries,  a  flood  of 
light  and  joy,  and  receiving  in  return,  from  all  quarters,  a 
gathering  and  rising  tide  of  praise,  in  the  songs  of  "  Blessing 
and  honour  and  glory  and  power,"  like  the  voice  of  many  wa- 
ters, and  like  the  voice  of  mighty  thunderings. 

There,  my  hearers,  may  you  all  be  found  at  last,  united  to 
that  multitude  which  no  man  can  number,  partaking  in  their 
purity  and  bliss,  in  their  absorbing  and  unchanging  love  to 
God,  and  mingling  your  notes  with  theirs,  in  the  everlasting 
hallelujahs  of  Heaven. 


SERMON  IV. 


JOB,  xlii,  5,  6. 


1  have  heard  of  thee  by  the  hearing  of  the  ear  :  but  now  my  eye  seeth  thee. 
Wherefore  I  abhor  myself,  and  repent  in  dust  and  ashes. 

There  is  often,  in  the  course  of  divine  providence,  a  com- 
bination of  circumstances,  calculated,  in  a  peculiar  manner, 
or  in  an  eminent  degree,  to  call  forth  the  confession  of  the 
text. 

On  that  dreadful  morning,  when  Abraham,  at  an  early 
hour,  in  expectation  of  beholding  the  overthrow  of  Sodom 
and  Gomorrah,  according  to  the  revelation  of  the  preceding 
day,  ascended  the  eminence  on  which  that  revelation  was 
made,  and,  as  the  sun  rose  upon  the  earth,  saw  the  smoke  of 
those  devoted  cities,  and  of  the  whole  burning  plain  around 
them,  rolling  upward  as  the  smoke  of  a  great  furnace,  with 
how  much  propriety  might  he  have  said  to  the  most  high  God, 
in  view  of  this  exhibition  of  his  hohness,  and  in  view  of  his 
own  sinfulness,  "I  have  heard  of  thee  by  the  hearing  of  the 
ear" — I  have  heard  of  thy  purity  and  justice  in  driving  fallen 
man  out  of  paradise,  and  bringing  a  deluge  of  waters  on  the 
world  of  the  ungodly,  "  but  now  mine  eye  seeth  thee" — I 
behold  these  perfections  of  thine  in  illustrious  exercise,  where- 
fore I  abhor  myself,  and  repent  in  dust  emd  ashes — by  the 
sight  before  me  I  discover  my  pollution  and  exposure  to  thy 
wrath,  and  fall  down  in  the  dust  at  thy  feet  with  the  deepest 
self-loathing  and  penitence. 

When  Moses  stood  in  safety,  with  the  nation  of  Israel,  on 
the  shore  of  the  Red  Sea,  and  beheld  the  divided  waters  re- 
turning over  the  host  of  Pharaoh — when  he  saw  the  manna 


SERMON    IV. 

raining  down  from  heaven,  and  the  water  gushing  from  the 
rock  of  the  desert — and  especially,  when,  after  the  wander- 
ings of  forty  years,  he  ascended  a  mountain  on  the  bank  of 
Jordan,  and  looked  over  the  verdant  hills  and  valleys  of  the 
good  land  beyond,  how  justly  might  he  have  said  to  the  God 
of  Abraham,  and  Isaac,  and  Jacob,  in  view  of  the  goodness 
and  faithfulness  manifest  in  the  fulfilment  of  his  promises, 
and  in  view  of  his  own  unbelief  and  reluctance  toward  the 
appointed  service  of  Heaven,  "  I  have  heard  of  thee  by  the 
hearing  of  the  ear,  but  now  min€  eye  seeth  thee  ;  wherefore 
I  abhor  myself,  and  repent  in  dust  and  ashes." 

Had  Peter  stood  before  the  dying  Son  of  God  on  the  hill 
of  Calvar}%  and  amid  the  sympathetic  changes  of  nature — the 
fading  sun,  the  quaking  earth,  the  rending  rocks,  the  opening 
graves,  and  the  rising  dead — had  heard  the  exclamation,  It 
is  finished,  and  had  understood  its  mighty  import,  in  its  bear- 
ing on  the  divine  government,  and  on  the  endless  state  of 
myriads  of  its  subjects,  with  what  an  emphasis  of  meaning 
might  he  have  cried  out  to  the  God  of  heaven,  in  view  of  the 
infinite  wisdom,  justice,  mercy,  and  faithfulness,  all  displayed 
in  living  characters  before  him,  and  in  view  of  his  own  aggra- 
vated vileness,  "I  have  heard  of  thee  by  the  hearing  of  the  ear, 
but  now  mine  eye  seeth  thee ;  wherefore  I  abhor  myself 
and  repent  in  dust  and  ashes." 

It  was  under  circumstances,  exhibiting,  in  some  degree  like 
those  now  enumerated,  the  attributes  of  the  divine  Being, 
that  Job  uttered  the  words  of  the  text. 

By  a  rapid  series  of  judgments  he  had  been  stript  of  his 
children  and  his  possessions,  afflicted  with  a  painful  and  loath- 
some disease,  and  deprived  of  the  light  of  God's  countenance. 
In  his  loneliness  and  misery  three  of  his  former  friends  came 
to  commune  with  him.  But  instead  of  comforting  him,  as 
might  have  been  expected  from  their  professed  friendship, 
they  added  a  bitterness  to  his  grief,  by  regarding  the  peculiar 
judgments  with  which  he  had  been  visited,  according  to  the 
common  opinion  of  the  times,  as  designed,  not  for  the  trial  of 


SERMON  IV. 


269 


his  great  virtue,  but  for  the  punishment  of  some  peculiar 
crime,  such  as  fraud,  oppression,  idolatry,  or  murder. 

From  the  secret  iniquity  and  hypocrisy,  thus  laid  to  his 
charge,  he  declared  himself  free  ;  and  maintained  the  doctrine, 
that  the  allotments  of  providence  in  this  life  furnish  no  test  of 
moral  character.  And  the  truth  was  on  his  side  ;  since,  in 
the  conclusion  of  the  controversy,  God  says  to  Eliphaz,  My 
wrath  is  kindled  against  thee,  and  against  thy  two  friends ;  for 
ye  have  not  spoken  of  me  the  thing  that  is  right,  as  my  ser- 
vant Job  hath  done.  His  cause  was  righteous ;  yet,  be- 
sides repining  under  the  chastisement  of  Heaven,  and  cursing 
the  day  of  his  birth,  he  sinned  in  maintaining  that  cause  with 
too  much  vehemence  and  impatience,  too  much  self-compla- 
cency, too  great  a  regard  to  his  reputation  and  too  little  for 
the  honour  of  his  Maker. 

The  contest  was  carried  on  in  this  manner  with  increasing 
warmth  on  both  sides,  till  the  Almighty,  coming  in  a  whirl- 
wind, breaks  in  upon  it,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  stopping  every 
mouth  at  once,  and  exclaims,  with  reference  to  Job,  Who  is 
this  that  darkeneth  counsel  by  words  without  knowledge  ? 
Gird  up  now  thy  loins  like  a  man  ;  for  I  will  demand  of  thee, 
and  answer  thou  me.  He  then  proceeds,  through  a  long  se- 
ries of  sublime  interrogatories,  to  bring  into  distinct  view  the 
greatness  of  his  power,  and  the  universality  of  his  kind  provi'. 
dence.  He  begins  with  the  laying  of  earth's  foundations,  and 
the  rejoicing  of  angels  over  the  event ;  then  leads  the  mind 
onward,  over  the  immensity  of  his  works — through  the  earth, 
the  ocean,  and  the  air,  all  peopled  with  his  own  dependant 
creatures — through  the  elements  in  all  their  variety  of  com- 
bination and  effect,  up  to  the  high  ordinances  of  heaven, 
and  the  sweet  influences  of  its  bright  constellations.  From 
every  quarter  of  the  creation  he  collects  the  scattered 
rays  of  divine  light  of  his  own  transcendent  glory,  and,  in 
one  overwhelming  flood,  pours  them  on  the  trembling 
mortal  before  him.  At  the  close  of  this  grand  display  of  his 
perfections,  we  find  the  convicted  and  penitent  man  sunk  down 


270 


SERMON    IV. 


into  his  own  littleness  and  worthlessness.  We  find  him  pros- 
trate at  the  feet  of  his  Maker,  with  this  confession  on  his  lips — 
Behold,  I  am  vile  ;  what  shall  I  answer  thee  ?  I  will  lay  mine 
hand  upon  my  mouth.  Once  have  I  spoken  ;  but  I  will  not 
answer  ;  yea,  twice ;  but  I  will  proceed  no  further.  I  know 
that  thou  canst  do  every  thing,  and  that  no  thought  can  be 
withholden  from  thee.  "I  have  heard  of  thee  by  the  hearing 
of  the  ear :  but  now  mine  eye  seeth  thee.  Wherefore  I  ab- 
hor myself,  and  repent  in  dust  and  ashes."  As  if  he  had  said, 
men  of  former  generations  have  borne  testimony  to  thy  pu- 
rity, thy  rectitude,  and  thy  benevolence,  and  the  report  has 
reached  my  ears  :  these  friends  of  mine  have  talked  of  the 
same  perfections  in  thy  character,  and  I  have  listened  to 
them  ;  but  now  thou  hast  spoken  to  my  heart,  and  the  eyes 
of  my  understanding  hast  thou  enlightened  to  discern  thy 
glory,  which  thou  hast  gathered  from  all  the  universe,  and 
caused  to  pass  before  me  ;  wherefore  I  abhor  my  ingratitude 
and  unbelief,  my  proud  and  repining  spirit ;  and  here  at  thy 
feet  I  repent  of  all,  in  the  deepest  self-abasement. 

Such  is  the  language  of  penitence,  as  it  appears  in  one, 
who  had  for  years  been  a  servant  of  God  ;  and  such  is  uni- 
formly its  language  at  its  commencement  in  the  heart  of  a 
sinner.  Repentance  itself  is  the  same  thing,  at  its  commence- 
ment, and  at  every  subsequent  period  of  this  imperfect  life. 
It  is  exercised  in  view  of  the  same  objects,  and  produces  es- 
sentially the  same  effects.  It  is  every  where  the  same  thing, 
both  as  it  is  felt  in  the  heart,  and  as  it  is  manifested  in  the  con- 
duct. 

From  these  remarks,  considered  in  connexion  with  the  pre- 
ceding illustrations  of  the  text,  may  be  derived  the  following 
sentiment. 

All  genuine  repentance  springs  from  a  clear  view  of  God. 

It  is  my  present  design  to  talie  this  truth,  and  carry  it  along 
as  a  test  through  every  part  of  the  work  of  repentance — 
through  each  particular  act  commonly  included  in  the  idea 
of  repentance. 

As  preparatory  to  this  examination,  it  is  proper  to  remark — 


SERMON    IV.  271 

that,  as  it  respects  the  knowledge  of  God,  the  most  which 
can  be  said  of  men,  under  the  blinding  influence  of  sin,  is, 
that  they  hear  of  him  by  the  hearing  of  the  ear.  They  see 
him  not.  Their  acquaintance  with  him  has  none  of  the  pro- 
perties, and  produces  none  of  the  effects,  of  near  and  distinct 
vision.  And  even  their  hearing  of  him  has  all  the  faintness 
and  indistinctness  of  great  distance.  The  report  of  his 
mighty  acts  of  justice  and  goodness,  coming  down  to  them 
through  the  lapse  of  time,  does  not  grow  clearer  and  louder 
from  age  to  age,  till  it  strike  in  thunder  on  the  ear,  and  wake 
up  the  soul  to  the  recognition  of  a  present  God.  When  the 
Almighty  marches  through  the  land  in  judgment  or  in  mercy, 
they  hear  the  sound  of  his  goings  as  from  afar.  The  procla- 
mation of  his  glory,  made  in  his  written  oracles,  and  by  the 
living  minister  of  truth,  is  heard  as  an  idle  tale.  It  dies  away 
on  the  ear,  like  an  unheeded  whisper.  Or  if  it  rouse  the  at- 
tention, it  is  but  for  a  moment.  The  sinner  soon  relapses 
into  his  former  listless  state,  and  again  hears  as  though  he 
heard  not.  But  when  the  deafening  and  blinding  power  of 
sin  is  removed,  men  hear  and  see  the  infinite  God  as  a  being 
ever  nigh  them.  Yes,  my  brethren,  they  see  him.  To  you, 
the  meaning  of  this  language  is  not  obscure ;  nor  is  the  truth 
of  the  idea  doubtful.  They  behold  with  admiring  eyes  the 
exhibition  of  his  glory — the  glory  of  his  character,  of  his  law, 
of  his  gospel,  and  of  his  universal  government.  They  behold 
in  him  all  that  is  vast  in  power,  all  that  is  comprehensive  in 
knowledge,  all  that  is  awful  in  majesty,  all  that  is  glorious  in 
holiness,  all  that  is  lovely  in  benevolence,  all  that  is  perfect  in 
every  excellence  ;  and  the  sight  cannot  but  show  them  their 
own  weakness,  their  ignorance,  and  their  vileness.  Here, 
under  the  all-seing  eye  of  God,  repentance  begins — here,  at 
the  discovery  of  the  divine  character  and  glory. 

This  brings  me  to  observe, 

I.  All  genuine  conviction  of  sin  springs  from  a  clear  view 
of  God. 

Genuine  conviction  of  sin  is  never  manifested  by  an  indefi- 
nite acknowledgment  that  we  are  sinners — that  we,  like  the 


ftn 


SERMON    IV 


rest  of  mankind,  are  inclined  to  the  love  and  practice  of  ini- 
quity. Such  an  acknowledgment  is  often  made  without  the 
least  distress — nay,  with  the  greatest  indifference,  or  with  the 
intention  of  escaping  in  the  crowd,  under  the  general  implica- 
tion of  the  human  family.  Such  an  acknowledgment  never 
costs  any  sacrifice  of  inward  corruption,  or  of  outward  trans- 
gression. The  lips  may  utter  it,  and  the  heart  remain  as  un- 
humbled  as  ever.  Pride  may  rankle  as  deep,  and  rise  as 
high.  The  vilest  of  men  may  join  the  multitude  in  making  it ; 
and,  the  next  moment,  turn  about  and  resent,  with  a  revenge- 
ful spirit,  the  least  word  of  friendly  reproof  from  another. 

Real  conviction  of  sin,  on  the  contrary,  is  personal  and  par- 
ticular. Its  language  is,  not  /  am  one  of  a  sinful  race,  but 
/  am  the  diief  of  sinners.  It  is  an  absorbing  consciousness 
of  guilt,  which  takes  full  possession  of  its  subject,  showing 
him  turpitude  in  himself,  that  he  can  see  in  no  other,  because 
he  can  see  the  heart  of  no  other,  and  making  him  feel  singled 
out  from  the  mass  of  mankind  as  peculiarly  obnoxious  to  pun- 
ishment. It  seals  his  lips  in  self-condemning  silence,  covers 
his  face  with  confusion,  and  bows  down  his  spirit  with  over- 
powering heaviness. 

The  inquiry  now  is,  by  what  means  this  subduing  sense  of 
guilt  is  produced — in  view  of  what  principles  of  rectitude. 
Those  of  the  world  are  not  pure  enough,  to  make  the  amia- 
ble moralist  feel  himself  thus  vile  ;  they  are  not  high  enough 
to  sink  him  so  low  in  his  own  estimation.  He  may  be  just 
what  the  opinions  of  the  world,  the  demands  of  human  soci- 
ety, require  him  to  be.  What  occasion  then  for  distress  and 
self-accusation  ?  The  world  acquits  him  ;  why  should  he 
pronounce  sentence  against  himself  ?  The  honest  and  hu- 
mane hail  him  as  their  brother  ;  they  smile  upon  him  with  fa- 
vour ;  they  follow  him  with  applause  ;  they  point  him  out  as  a 
perfect  example  for  imitation.  Why  then  should  he  hide  his 
head,  and  cover  himself  with  reproaches  ?  Why  should  he 
not  walk  abroad  in  the  dignity  of  conscious  innocence,  and 
say  to  every  one  below  him  on  the  world's  scale  of  rectitude, 
Stand  by  thyself,  come  not  near  to  me  ;  for  I  am  holier  than 


SERMON    IV.  275 

thou  ?  Plainly  because  he  judges  himself  at  a  higher  bar  than 
that  of  human  opinion,  and  by  a  purer  law.  He  regards  him- 
self, not  merely  as  a  member  of  human  society,  and  under  ob- 
ligation to  perform  its  requirements,  but  as  a  subject  of  the 
divine  government,  a  member  of  the  great  community  of  in- 
telligent beings,  scattered  over  the  universe,  under  the  do- 
minion of  one  Almighty  Head,  to  whom  they  are  all  account- 
able on  the  same  perfect  and  eternal  principles  of  justice. 
He  looks  up  to  heaven,  and  sees  on  the  throne  a  God  of  infi- 
nite excellence,  and  at  the  sight  sinks  down  into  his  own 
worthlessness.  He  reads  in  the  statute-book  of  heaven, 
"  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God,  with  all  thy  heart,  and 
with  all  thy  soul,  and  with  all  thy  mind,  and  with  all  thy 
strength,  and  thy  neighbour  as  thyself  ;" — and  when  this  com- 
mandment comes  home  to  his  bosom,  enforced  by  its  right- 
eous sanctions,  sin  revives,  manifests  itself  in  its  living  malig- 
nity, and  he  dies.  And  well  may  he  despair  of  receiving  the 
sentence  of  life  from  that  law,  which  requires  the  supreme 
homage  of  his  heart,  and  the  entire  devotedness  of  all  his  fa- 
culties— which  requires,  that  every  thought,  and  feehng,  and 
word,  and  action,  of  every  day  of  his  existence,  be  conformed 
to  its  perfect  holiness,  under  penalty  of  death.  In  such  a  tri- 
al, well  may  he  feel,  that  every  sun,  which  has  rolled  over  his 
head,  can  testify  many  things  against  him — nay,  that  he  has 
fallen  far  short  of  sinless  obedience  in  every  thing,  that  his 
whole  life  calls  for  the  sentence  of  condemnation.  To  such 
a  trial  he  must  sooner  or  later  be  brought — either  in  this  sea- 
son of  time,  while  the  angel  of  mercy  stands  with  open  arms 
to  receive  him,  a  condemned  criminal  as  he  is,  from  the  hands 
of  the  Judge,  and  pronounce  his  forgiveness  ;  or  in  that  eter- 
nity to  come,  when  Justice  will  rise,  and  assert  her  rights  ; 
claim  her  victim,  and  hurry  him  away  to  execution. 

If,  then,  my  hearers,  we  would  become  convinced  of  our 
true  character,  while  such  a  conviction  may  prove  the  har- 
binger of  salvation,  we  must  endeavour  to  obtain  a  clear  dis- 
covery of  the  true  character  of  God.     If  we  would  know 

ourselves,  we  must  first  know  him.     If  we  would  ascertain 

3.5 


274  SERMON   IV. 

what  we  are,  we  must  ascertain  what  his  law  reqtiires  us 
to  be.  We  are  not  to  stand  here  upon  his  footstool,  and 
judge  ourselves  by  comparing  ourselves  among  ourselves,  or 
by  the  standard  of  this  world's  morality.  While  we  are  do- 
ing this,  the  judgment  of  heaven  is  proceeding  against  us.  Be 
the  opinion  of  the  world  concerning  us  what  it  may,  how  will 
it  effect  the  unchanging  character  and  destiny  of  eternity  for 
which  we  are  preparing  ?  We  are  to  stand  or  fall  before 
another  Master.  In  judging  ourselves,  therefore,  we  are  to 
take  more  elevated  ground  than  that  of  the  world  ;  we  are 
to  go,  as  it  were,  to  heaven.  There  is  the  place  of  judgment ; 
there  the  tribunal  is  erected  ;  and  there,  in  the  immediate 
presence  of  the  God  of  purity  and  glory,  the  perfect  and  ho- 
ly One,  we  are  to  try  ourselves  by  the  high  standard  of  heav- 
en, and  then,  if  ever,  we  shall  exclaim  in  the  fulness  of  convic- 
tion, Father,  we  have  sinned  against  heaven  and  in  thy  sight. 
We  are  to  take  our  original  rank,  but  a  little  lower  than  the 
angels,  if  we  would  see  to  what  a  depth  we  have  fallen.  Thus 
may  we  discover  what  we  are,  and  what  we  ought  to  be,  by 
what  we  should  have  been,  had  we  never  transgressed. 
Above  all,  we  are  to  stand  trembling  before  the  heart-search- 
ing Jehovah,  till  we  see  that  every  corner  of  pollution  within 
our  breasts  is  naked  and  open  to  his  eye  of  infinite  purity,  if 
we  would  feel  how  unfit  we  are  for  an  eternal  seat  at  his 
right  hand.  We  are  to  contemplate  the  divine  Being  on  his 
throne,  in  the  character  of  a  righteous  Law-giver  and  omnis- 
cient Judge,  if  we  would  see  our  guilt,  and  wretched- 
ness, and  ruin — if  we  would  be  thoroughly  convinced  that 
nothing  but  the  grace  of  the  gospel  can  save  us.  It  .was 
when  Isaiah  beheld  the  Lord  sitting  on  a  throne  high  and  hft- 
ed  up,  surrounded  by  the  spotless  seraphim,  crying  one  unto 
another.  Holy,  holy,  holy  is  the  Lord  of  hosts,  the  whole 
earth  is  full  of  his  glory,  that  he  exclaimed.  Wo  is  me  !  for  I 
am  undone  ;  because  I  am  a  man  of  unclean  lips  ;  for  mine 
eyes  have  seen  the  King,  the  Lord  of  Hosts. 

But  it  is  time  to  observe, 

II.  All  genuine  sorrow  for  sin  springs  from  a  clear  view  of 
God. 


SERMON    IV.  275 

There  is  a  sorrow,  which  is  no  part  of  true  repentance  ; 
which  is  no  where  conunanded  ;  and  whicli  needs  to  be  re- 
pented of.  It  is  that  which  is  felt  solely  in  view  of  the  vari- 
ous undesirable  consequences  of  sin — such  as  the  loss  of  re- 
putation, health,  property,  friends,  or  any  other  temporal 
good  ;  the  reproaches  of  conscience,  and  the  woes  of  hell. 
No  elaborate  arguments  are  necessary  to  show  that  this  sor- 
row is  wholly  selfish,  and  therefore  wholly  displeasing  to  God. 
A  familiar  example  will  suffice  for  this  purpose.  If  a  crimi- 
nal, in  a  court  of  justice,  perceive  that  the  crime,  for  which 
he  is  arraigned,  and  of  which  he  knows  himself  guilty,  can- 
not be  proved,  in  consequence  of  some  mismanagement  or 
want  of  evidence,  he  may  lose  at  once  all  regret  on  account 
of  its  commission,  in  the  joy  of  his  anticipated  acquittal  ; 
where,  on  the  contrary,  if  he  perceive  that,  as  the  examina- 
tion of  testimony  proceeds,  light  is  coming  in  from  every 
quarter  to  make  his  guilt  clearer  and  clearer,  till  all  the  dark- 
ness in  which  he  had  hoped  to  escape  be  scattered  and  gone, 
he  may  feel  very  poignant  sorrow  for  the  fatal  deed,  while  he 
stands  in  full  exposure  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand  penetrating 
eyes,  and  hears  himself  doomed  to  the  suffering  and  igno- 
miny of  the  dungeon  or  the  scaflfold.  But  is  there  any  virtue 
in  such  sorrow  ?  Does  it  afford  any  assurance  that  the  man, 
if  he  were  again  at  liberty,  would  not  embrace  the  first  op- 
portunity for  repeating  the  crime  with  impunity,  or  at  a  risk 
which  in  his  estimation  amounted  to  impunity  ?  Can  you, 
my  hearers,  discover  in  this  sorrow,  any  thing  that  is  amiable, 
any  thing  that  is  worthy  your  commendation,  of  your  confi- 
dence and  love  ?  Do  not  apostate  angels  possess  it  in  a  high 
degree  ?  What  wretched  inhabitant  of  the  world  of  despair, 
is  not  stung  with  anguish  at  the  remembrance  of  the  sins,  that 
brought  him  down  to  that  dreadful  abode  ?  Hell  is  full  of 
such  sorrow  for  sin.  But  destroy  its  gnawing  worm,  and  put 
out  its  flames,  and  sorrow  for  sin  will  be  felt  there  no  lon- 
ger. 

Like  the  case  of  the  criminal  at  a  human  bar,  is  often  that 
of  a  sinner  upon  a  sick  bed.     If,  from  the  anxious  looks  and 


276  SERMON  IV. 

cautious  whispers  of  his  physician,  and  the  half-stifled  emo- 
tions and  starting  tears  of  his  friends,  he  perceives  that  he  is 
about  to  be  given  up  to  death,  he  not  unfrequently,  just  at  that 
turning  point,  that  fii'st  moment  of  despair,  begins,  in  view  of 
his  anticipated  summons  before  the  tribunal  of  heaven,  and 
condemnation  to  eternal  ignominy  and  woe,  to  break  out  in 
lamentations  over  his  iniquities,  in  self-reproaches,  and  cries 
for  mercy,  or  promises  of  amendment  if  again  restored  to 
health  ;  but  should  the  wished-for  restoration  be  granted,  be- 
comes ashamed  of  his  misgivings,  laughs  at  his  fears,  and 
gives  his  sorrows  to  the  winds.  It  is  not  sin  itself,  but  the 
wages  of  sin,  the  wrath  to  come,  that  is  the  cause  of  this  dis- 
tress, which  vanishes  so  quickly,  as  the  day  of  doom  again 
recedes  before  his  eye,  and  appears  to  leave  him  a  long  inter- 
val for  sinful  indulgence.  This  transitory  distress  springs 
wholly  from  the  dread  of  approaching  punishment.  And  is 
there  any  virtue  in  fearing  to  be  punished  1 — in  hating  mis- 
ery ? — in  dreading  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  an  angry  God  ? — 
in  shrinking  back  from  the  brink  of  the  opening  pit  ?  If  so, 
what  shall  we  say  of  the  horrors  of  the  dying  Voltaire,  and 
Paine  ? 

Who  of  you,  my  hearers,  could  regard  with  approbation 
the  man,  that  should  uniformly  manifest  towards  you  an  un- 
relenting enmity,  till  he  found  that  by  such  conduct  he  was 
procuring  his  own  ruin,  and  should  then  come  to  you,  not  with 
a  melting  heait,  but  with  concessions,  and  exclamations  of 
pretended  grief  ?  Could  you  feel  any  complacence  in  such  a 
mixture  of  selfishness  and  hypocrisy?  And  can  any  one  of 
you  expect  that  God  will  look  with  favour  on  the  man  who 
mourns  for  sin  with  a  supreme  regard  to  his  own  private  in- 
terests ?  Can  such  selfish  sorrow  work  any  thing  but  death  ? 
It  is  not,  then,  that  sorrow  required  in  the  gospel.  It  is  the 
sorrow  of  the  world.  It  is  exercised  upon  the  great  govern- 
ing principles  of  the  world,  and  therefore  will  not  bear  the 
test  of  heaven. 

In  opposition  to  this  worldly  sorrrovv,  that  which  is  genu- 
ine is  denominated  godly  sorrow,  because  it  springs  from  a 


SERMON  IV.  277 

clear  discovery  of  the  character  and  requirements  of  God. 
The  true  penitent  mourns  for  sin  itself — as  an  abomination 
to  God,  an  offence  to  his  infinite  excellence,  and  a  transgres- 
sion of  his  law,  which  is  acknowledged  and  loved  as  holy,  just, 
and  good,  in  all  its  high  claims  and  dreadful  sanctions.  Yes, 
the  true  penitent  acknowledges,  and  loves,  the  justice  of  that 
law  which  condemns  him.  He  accepts  the  judgment  of 
Heaven  against  himself,  with  the  subdued  spirit  of  an  affec- 
tionate child.  How  have  I  sinned  against  the  high  and  holy 
One  !  This  is  the  burden  of  his  complaint.  The  various 
views  which  he  takes  of  the  divine  Being,  all  conspire  to 
humble  and  break  his  heart.  Now  he  contemplates  him  in 
the  character  of  the  righteous  Lawgiver  and  moral  Governour 
of  the  universe,  and  now  in  that  of  the  benevolent  Father  of 
one  great  family  of  creatures — at  one  time,  he  views  him  in 
the  exercise  of  unyielding  justice  ;  and,  at  another,  in  that  of 
condescending  mercy — now  he  looks  on  the  son  of  God  ex- 
piring on  the  cursed  tree  to  save  the  lost,  and  now  he  beholds 
him  coming  in  the  clouds  of  heaven  to  judge  the  quick  and 
the  dead,  and  at  every  view  he  smites  upon  his  breast,  and 
cries  out  with  deep  contrition,  God  be  merciful  to  me  a 
sinner. 

The  true  penitent  regards  all  his  sins  as  offences  against 
God,  and  is  grieved  for  them  on  that  account.  Thus  he  re- 
gards even  those  committed  more  directly  against  [his  neigh- 
bour, because  God  commands  him  to  love  his  neighbour  as 
himself.  The  crimes  lamented  so  bitterly  by  David,  in  the 
fifty  first  psalm,  were  committed  more  immediately  against 
the  laws  of  human  society ;  yet  he  seems  to  overlook  this  ; 
and  the  conviction  of  his  criminality  before  God  takes  such 
full  possession  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  and  his  whole  soul, 
that  he  exclaims,  against  thee,  Xhe&only,  have  I  sinned,  and 
done  this  evil  in  thy  sight.  The  wrongs  of  the  confiding,  and 
faithful,  but  betrayed,  and  robbed,  and  murdered  Uriah,  seem 
forgotten  in  the  all-absorbing  remembrance  of  the  violated 
laws  of  Heaven. 


278 


SERMON    IV. 


Such  is  the  sorrow  of  genuine  penitence.  It  is  not  the 
selfish  grief  of  the  slave.  It  is  not  the  chagrin  of  wounded 
pride  or  di>>appointed  ambition.  It  springs  not  from  a  sense 
of  self-degradation ;  nor  principally  from  any  of  the  unhappy 
consequences  of  sin,  but  from  a  discovery  of  the  perfections 
and  claims  of  the  infinite  Jehovah. 

With  this  remark,  I  pass,  to  observe, 

III.  All  genuine  reformation  of  life  springs  from  a  clear 
view  of  God. 

The  work  of  repentance  is  not  complete  till  it  be  manifested 
in  its  purifying  eflects  on  the  conduct — till  sin  be  forsaken 
and  holiness  embraced.  And  how  is  this  to  be  accomplish- 
ed ?  Though  the  hypocrite,  when  the  dread  of  punishment 
disturbs  him,  may  break  off  from  the  commission  of  open  im- 
moralities, and  go  through  the  performance  of  certain  exter- 
nal duties,  yet  he  seeks  only  to  cover  his  sins,  in  order  to  al- 
lay his  fears  ;  he  does  not  heartily  and  unreservedly  forsake 
them.  He  falls  short  of  thorough  reformation,  because  he 
begins  the  work  where  he  should  finish  it.  He  attempts  to 
cleanse  the  streams,  while  the  fountain  is  left  in  its  original 
impurity ;  and  no  wonder  if  it  continue  to  send  forth  polluting 
waters,  to  thwart  his  utmost  exertions.  The  real  penitent 
knowing  that  what  he  cordially  hates  he  can  easily  renounce, 
begins  the  work  of  renouncing  sin,  by  striving  to  overcome 
all  internal  relish  for  it.  And  this  he  does,  because  he  feels 
that  while  men  look  on  the  outward  appearance,  the  God,  to 
•w^hom  he  is  accountable,  looks  on  the  heart,  and  judges  of  the 
external  act  by  the  inward  disposition,  and  therefore  regards 
that  as  no  abandonment  of  sin,  which  proceeds  not  from  cor- 
dial abhorrence  of  it.  The  real  penitent  forsakes  all  his  ini- 
quities, his  vain  pleasures,  his  projects  of  ambition,  his  habits 
of  sloth,  or  hitemperance,  or  avarice,  together  with  his  wick- 
ed companions  and  the  scenes  of  his  former  transgressions — 
in  short  he  forsakes  the  broad  way  to  death  with  all  its  allure- 
ments, and  chooses  the  narrow  way  to  life  with  all  its  trials  ; 
and  this  he  does  in  obedience  to  the  high  authority  of 
Heaven. 


SERMON  IV.  279 

The  real  penitent  does  not  suffer  himself  to  be  frequently 
overcome  by  some  besetting  sin,  and  rest  satisfied  with  plead- 
ing in  his  excuse  the  strength  of  temptation,  or  constitutional 
temperament.  He  shudders  at  the  thought  of  retaining  a 
single  enemy  to  prove  a  deceiver,  and  in  the  end  a  dreadful 
destroyer.  He  has  no  desire  to  make  any  compromise  with 
sin,  any  covenant  with  death,  or  any  agreement  with  hell  — 
and  because  he  sees  in  the  Most  High  every  excellence,  to 
support  his  claim  to  perfect  obedience. 

The  true  penitent  shuns  temptation.  He  never  yields  to 
it,  with  the  intention  of  repenting  afterwards,  nor  does  he 
venture  toward  compliance  with  it  as  far  as  he  thinks  he  can 
and  preserve  the  name  and  appearance  of  rejecting  it.  He 
stops  not  to  catch  a  taste  of  the  forbidden  fruit  before  he 
flies — and  because  he  sees,  that  the  Being,  with  whom  he  has 
to  do,  cannot  but  regard  such  conduct  as  daring  mockery. 
His  language  at  the  first  approach  of  temptation  is.  How  can 
I  do  this  great  wickedness,  and  sin  against  God ! 

The  real  penitent  forsakes  his  secret  sins ;  for  never  so 
clearly,  as  when  alone,  does  he  behold  the  pure  and  pene- 
trating eye  of  God  fixed  upon  him. 

He  perseveres  in  his  renunciation  of  sin.  He  does  not 
leave  it  one  day  and  return  to  it  the  next.  Nor  does  he  suf- 
fer himself  to  commit  the  same  transgression  again  and  again, 
and  immediately  after  each  commission  fall  down  on  his 
knees,  and  confess  and  bewail  it  with  strong  cries  and  many 
tears,  and  then  rise  with  a  conscience  wholly  unburdened, 
and  with  the  calm  self-complacent  feeling  that  his  Maker  is 
thus  appeased,  and  that  his  obligations  to  him  are  thus  dis- 
charged— and  he  dares  not  do  this,  because  he  knows  that 
such  an  allowed  course  of  alternate  transgression  and  repent- 
ance must  be  an  abomination  in  the  sight  of  heaven. 

In  the  conclusion  of  this  discourse,  permit  me,  my  Chris- 
tian friends,  affectionately,  but  with  becoming  solemnity,  to 
apply  to  you,  and  to  request  you  to  apply  to  yourselves,  the 
test  of  repentance  which  has  now  been  presented  to  your 
view.  Do  you  feel  altogether  conscious,  that  the  trial,  were 
it  ever  so  faithfully  made,  would  issue  in  your  favour  ? 


280  SERMON  IV. 

Does  your  repentance  spring  from  a  clear  view  of  God  ? — 
In  the  first  place,  does  it  spring  from  a  clear  view  of  his 
character  ?  Do  you  discover  the  deep  deformity  of  sin  by  a 
contrast  with  the  infinite  beauty  of  his  holiness  ? — by  the 
light  of  his  glorious  perfections  ?  And  is  it  this  contrast,  that 
convinces  you  of  the  necessity  of  repentance  ?  Is  it  this  that 
alaj-ms  you  ;  that  fills  you  with  grief,  and  causes  you  to  de- 
part from  iniquity  ?  Is  it  the  desire  to  be  reconciled  to  God, 
and  assimilated  to  his  moral  excellence,  that  prompts  you  to 
the  renunciation  of  sin  ?  Is  it  the  high  and  holy  hope  of  grow- 
ing in  friendship  with  him,  and  likeness  to  him,  through  inter- 
minable ages  ?  And  do  you  dread  a  state  of  impenitence  be- 
cause it  would  deprive  you  of  this  happiness  ? — because  it 
would  remove  you  farther  and  farther,  through  time,  and 
through  eternity,  from  the  centre  and  sum  of  all  perfection  ? 

Again  ;  Does  your  repentance  spring  from  a  clear  view  of 
the  law  of  God  ?  Do  you  acknowledge  its  justice,  and  take  it 
as  the  rule  of  your  life,  in  all  its  extent  and  strictness,  and 
moiu'n  over  sin  as  the  violation  of  its  sacred  requirements  ? — 
and  do  you  dread  a  state  of  impenitence  because  it  is  in  defi- 
ance of  its  righteous  authority  ?  The  law  of  the  Lord  is  per- 
fect, converting  the  soul.  Have  you  been  turned  from  ini- 
quity under  its  mighty  influence  ?  Have  you  forsaken  the 
way  of  transgressors,  by  following  the  light  of  this  lamp  of 
heaven  ? 

Again  ;  does  your  repentance  spring  from  a  clear  view 
of  the  mercy  of  God  in  the  gospel  ?  Are  you  brought  to  abhor 
yourselves,  and  to  abstain  from  evil,  by  contemplating  the 
price  of  your  redemption,  and  the  magnitude  of  the  work — 
by  gazing  upon  the  height  and  depth,  the  length  and  breadth, 
of  this  grand  system  of  divine  benevolence  ?  Does  the  love 
of  Christ  constrain  you  to  deny  ungodliness  and  wordly  lusts, 
and  live  soberly  and  righteously  in  the  world  ?  Is  it  when  you 
look  on  him  whom  you  have  pierced,  that  you  mourn  ?  Does 
the  munificence  of  his  everlasting  grace  make  you  feel  poor, 
and  wretched,  and  miserable,  and  blind,  and  naked,  and  in 
want  of  all  things  ? 


SERMON  IV.  281 

Once  more  ;  Does  your  repentance  spring  from  a  clear 
view  of  the  righteousness  of  God  as  your  final  Judge  ? 

God  commandeth  all  men,  every  where,  to  repent ;  because 
he  hath  appointed  a  day,  in  which  he  will  judge  the  world  in 
righteousness.  Have  you  repented  because  there  is  a  day  of 
judgment  coming  ? — a  day  in  which  the  secrets  of  all  hearts 
shall  be  revealed,  and  the  hidden  works  of  darkness  be  brought 
to  light,  and  the  eternal  portion  of  each  shall  be  allotted  to 
him  according  to  the  deeds  done  in  the  body  ?  Have  you  re- 
pented because  a  single  sin  unforsaken  will  then  and  there, 
in  the  presence  of  your  heart-searching  Judge,  weigh  like  a 
mountain  upon  the  soul  1  Have  you  repented  because  it  will 
be  a  day  for  the  fuller  and  brighter  manifestation  of  God's 
glory,  and  for  the  grand  consummation  of  his  purposes? — a 
day  for  the  exhibition  of  his  perfections,  and  the  triumph  of 
the  principles  of  his  government  ?  If  you  have,  it  will  also  be 
a  day  of  triumph  to  you ;  you  will  hail  its  dawning  with  un- 
speakable joy.  Then  will  all  your  past  knowledge  of  God 
appear  like  that  of  an  infant.  It  will  seem  to  you,  that, 
through  all  the  years  of  your  existence  on  earth,  you  had  only 
heard  of  him  by  the  hearing  of  the  ear,  as  the  glorious  Sove- 
reign of  a  distant  and  invisible  world  :  for  then  you  shall  be 
in  that  world,  and  shall  there  see  him  as  he  is  ;  and  from  that 
near  view  of  his  glory  shall  take  into  your  bosoms  the  fulness 
of  joy.  Thenceforth  you  shall  live  in  the  light  of  his  unveiled 
countenance,  partake  of  his  sinless  purity,  admire  the  perfec- 
tions of  his  nature,  and  the  principles  of  his  government,  and 
chant  hallelujahs  for  the  wonders  of  his  redemption.  Then 
shall  God  himself  wipe  away  all  tears  from  your  eyes. 

To  such  of  you,  my  hearers,  as  may  be  conscious  that  you 
are  impenitent,  or  may  give  lamentable  proof  to  others  that 
you  are  so,  I  have  only  to  say,  that  you  are  at  war  with  a 
Power,  who,  in  every  thing,  is  infinitely  above  you.  And 
have  you  no  fears  for  the  termination  of  such  a  contest  ?  Are 
you  prepared  to  stand  it  out  to  the  last  ?  Do  you  fondly  ima- 
gine that  the  Most  High  will  never  execute  his  threatenings 

against  final  ungodliness  ?    Is  he  a  man,  that  he  should  lie  ? 

36 


SERMON    IV. 

or  the  son  of  man,  that  he  should  repent?  Hath  he  said,  and 
shall  he  not  do  it  ?  Hath  he  spoken,  and  shall  he  not  make  it 
good  ?  Has  he  no  regard  for  the  honour  of  his  law,  the  ma- 
jesty of  his  throne,  and  the  good  of  his  universal  kingdom  ? 

But  your  very  character  of  impenitence,  no  less  than  the 
constitution  of  the  divine  government,  will  demand  your  eter- 
nal banishment  from  the  presence  of  the  Lord,  and  the  glory 
of  his  power.  This  sentence  of  banishment  will  not  be  exe- 
cuted as  a  mere  arbitrary  act  of  sovereignty ;  for  without  ho- 
liness no  man  can  see  the  Lord.  Into  the  holy  city  above,  no- 
thing that  defileth  can  ever  enter.  None  but  the  pure  in 
heart  can  see  God. 

Were  an  unsanctified  being  to  steal  unseen  into  the  midst 
of  heaven's  holy  worshippers,  his  own  sense  of  unfitness  for 
their  employment  would  betray  him  there ;  he  would  throw 
off  the  mask  and  stand  exposed  to  every  eye  ;  and  though  his 
presence  should  suspend  the  songs  of  the  happy  myriads 
around  him,  there  would  be  no  need  that  all  heaven  should 
rise  to  cast  him  out ;  no  need  that  every  eye  should  look  to 
the  insulted  throne  for  sudden  wrath  to  blaze  forth  against 
him  ;  no  need  that  every  voice  should  call  for  his  banishment ; 
his  own  conscience  would  pass  the  sentence  on  himself,  and 
he  would  feel  in  his  inmost  soul  the  necessity  of  its  immediate 
execution.  He  would  himself  hurry  away  from  a  world 
where  "  Holiness  to  the  Lord"  is  written  on  every  object,  and 
where  "  Holy,  holy,  holy  Lord  God  of  Hosts"  is  sung  and 
echoed  and  re-echoed  by  all  the  companies  of  pure  and  bless- 
ed spirits. 


SERMON  V. 


ECCLESIASTES,  xii.  1. 


"Remember  now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy  youth,  while  the  evil  days  come 
not,  nor  the  years  draw  nigh,  when  thou  shaltsay,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  them." 

It  is  often  the  practice  of  the  sacred  writers,  to  express 
the  whole  of  reUgion  by  some  essential  and  prominent  part 
of  it.  They  call  it  "  the  knowledge  of  God,"  "  the  fear  of 
the  Lord,"  and  "  the  wisdom  that  is  from  above."  In  ex- 
horting men  to  become  religious,  they  often  think  it  enough 
to  exhort  them  to  the  performance  of  some  one  of  the  essen- 
tial and  prominent  duties  of  religion.  For  each  of  these  par- 
ticular exhortations  there  exists  an  appropriate  season. 

It  is  because  forgetfulness  of  God  is  an  all-pervading  ingre^ 
dient  in  human  depravity,  that  the  writer  of  the  text  stops 
short  with  exhorting  mankind  to  remember  their  Creator — as 
if  this  were  the  whole  of  their  duty — as  if  it  would  certainly 
bring  along  with  it  the  gratitude,  the  love,  the  faith,  and  the 
devotedness  of  the  whole  moral  man — as  if  these  and  all  oth- 
er virtues  were  included  in  the  single  idea  of  remembrance  ; 
and  thus  have  they  come  to  be  included  in  it,  in  consequence 
of  uniformly  existing  in  connexion  with  it. 

The  text  is  therefore  an  exhortation  calling  mankind  to  the 
performance  of  all  the  duties  of  religion.  Its  specific  object 
is,  to  excite  to  the  practice  of  early  piety  ;  and  the  specific 
object  of  the  present  discourse  is  to  exhibit,  to  the  younger 
part  of  my  audience,  motives  to  induce  them  to  become  pi- 
ous now  in  the  days  of  their  youth. 

Before  entering  upon  the  consideration  of  these  motives, 
however^  I  would  observe,  that  I  am  aware  of  the  manner,  in 


284 


SERMON   V. 


which  sermons  addressed  to  the  young,  exhibiting  their  pe- 
cuHar  facilities  for  obtaining  an  interest  in  the  salvation  of 
Christ,  are  received  by  the  impenitent  among  the  aged.  They 
say  to  the  preacher,  "  You  give  to  our  condition  a  sad,  dis- 
heartening aspect.  By  exhibiting  the  advantages  for  becom- 
ing children  of  God  in  youth,  you  leave  us  to  infer  the  disad- 
vantages for  becoming  such  in  old  age.  In  showing  to 
the  young  the  brightness  of  their  prospect,  you  show  to  us  the 
gloominess  of  our  own.  You  put  us  into  the  back  ground, 
and  bring  forward  the  multitudes  of  the  young  to  profit  by  our 
lamentable  situation,  and  almost  to  triumph  in  our  shame  and 
misery.  You  leave  us  to  stumble  on  in  the  darkness  of  ap- 
proaching despair,  and  encourage  them  to  walk  over  us  and 
our  fallen  hopes,  to  take  possession  of  the  rewards  of  immor- 
tality. Surely,  say  they,  we,  of  all  men,  most  need  to  hear 
the  language  of  encouragement,  to  save  us  from  utter  des- 
pondency, and  cause  us  to  make  the  best  of  our  state  and 
our  httle  remnant  of  life.  Instead  of  being  told  of  the  obsta- 
cles in  our  way,  we  should  be  told  of  every  possible  facility 
of  which  our  condition  admits." 

To  such  persons,  if  there  be  any  such  present,  it  may  be 
sufficient  to  observe,  that,  if  preaching  to  the  young,  on  their 
peculiar  advantages  for  repenting  of  sin  and  believing  in 
Christ,  make  you  feel  the  impediments  under  which  you  la- 
bour, what  is  so  likely,  as  this  feeling,  to  rouse  you  to  immedi- 
ate and  successful  efforts,  in  the  work  of  your  salvation  ?  At 
all  events,  if  you  are  convinced  of  the  truth  and  importance  of 
religion,  and  are  possessed  of  common  humanity,  you  can 
patiently,  and  even  gladly,  hear  the  young  exhorted  to  make 
sure  of  the  blessing  which  you  have  as  yet  neglected.  If  you 
are  at  all  sensible  of  the  multiplied  hindrances  in  your  way, 
you  cannot  have  the  cruelty  to  wish  others  to  be  left  undis- 
turbed, till  they  come  to  be  surrounded  by  the  same.  No — 
instead  of  this,  you  will  look  back,  over  the  waste  of  years, 
to  the  morning  of  life,  and  from  the  borders  of  the  eternal 
world  echo  the  command  of  God  to  the  young,  "  Remem- 
ber now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thv  youth,  while  the  evil 


SERMON  V.  285 

days  come  not,  nor  the  years  draw  nigh,  when  thou  shalt  say, 
I  have  no  pleasure  in  them." 

Among  the  motives  to  induce  the  young  to  become  pious, 
the  first  that  I  shall  mention,  is,  Their  susceptibility  of  re- 
ligious impressions. 

Youth  is  particularly  the  season  of  feeling.  The  heart  is 
then  comparatively  tender  ;  and  the  conscience  is  seldom 
seared,  as  it  often  is  in  riper  years.  This  tenderness  of  heart 
and  conscience  is  not,  as  the  infidel  would  have  us  believe, 
necessarily  nor  generally  allied  to  mental  weakness.  It  often 
exists  in  connexion  with  the  most  vigorous  intellect  ;  while  it 
always  goes  far  towards  preserving  the  understanding  en- 
tirely from  the  darkening  and  perverting  influence  of  preju- 
dice. It  does  not  necessarily  nor  generally  receive  the  im- 
press of  opinions  directly  from  without,  instead  of  receiving 
it  through  the  medium  of  an  enlightened  mind.  On  the  con- 
trary it  serves  to  keep  the  mind  ever  open  to  conviction. 
The  young  are  not,  like  many  in  advanced  life,  shielded,  and 
fortified,  and  armed  at  all  points,  against  the  arrows  of  truth. 
The  truths  of  revelation  are  directed  ultimately  to  the  con- 
science and  heart.  The  understanding  must  indeed  be  won  ; 
but  only  as  ground,  on  which  to  stand,  and  push  the  conquest 
forward  to  the  moral  faculties  of  the  soul.  Hence  that  ten- 
derness of  conscience  and  heart,  so  general  in  youth,  renders 
it  a  season  peculiarly  favourable  for  the  reception  of  divine 
truth  in  its  all-subduing  power.  When  will  the  love  of  Christ, 
the  sufferings  of  Calvary,  the  wonders  of  redemption,  the 
holiness  of  God  and  his  law,  and  the  glories  and  terrors  of 
the  coming  judgment,  call  forth  the  tears  of  deep  and  cordi- 
al penitence,  if  not  in  the  susceptibility  of  youth  ?  Will  they 
do  it  when  the  man  has  perhaps  reached  that  hardihood  in 
sin,  which  renders  the  heart  almost  proof  against  any  abiding 
impressions  ?  They  may  ;  but  it  is  a  bare  possibility.  And 
will  any  of  you,  my  young  friends,  quiet  yourselves  in  pre- 
sent impenitence,  with  the  confident  expectation,  that  at  some 
distant  period,  an  increase  of  the  power  of  divine  truth  and 
grace  will  be  put  forth,  to  overcome  the  increased  hardness 


286  SERMON  V. 

of  your  hearts  ?  Will  you  not  rather  with  a  trembling  inter- 
est, seize  the  advantage  of  present  tenderness  of  feeling,  lest 
your  future  insensibility  prove  the  sleep  of  death  ? 

A  second  motive  to  induce  the  young  to  enter  upon  the 
service  of  God  without  delay,  is, 

Their  freedom  from  long-confirmed  habits  of  transgres- 
sion. 

**  Can  the  Ethiopian  change  his  skin,  or  the  leopard  his 
spots?  Then  may  he,  who  has  long  been  accustomed  to  do 
evil,  learn  to  do  well."  From  this  moral  impossibihty  of  re- 
nouncing established  habits  of  iniquity  the  young  are  for  the 
most  part  exempted.  Except  in  some  instances  of  premature 
depravity,  sinful  practices  have  not  become  so  uniform  and 
inveterate,  as  to  constitute  a  character  openly  and  grossly  vi- 
cious. It  is  seldom,  for  instance,  that  we  see  a  youth  of  con- 
firmed intemperance.  But  leaivng  out  of  the  present  ac- 
count those  practices,  that  are  denominated  vicious,  and  con- 
fining our  attention  to  those  included  in  the  idea  of  neglect  of 
Christian  duty,  and  considering  the  difficulty  of  overcoming 
even  these,  after  they  have  for  a  long  time  been  persisted  in, 
we  shall  be  furnished  with  a  powerful  motive  to  excite  the 
young  to  immediate  compliance  with  the  requisitions  of  the 
gospel.  When  a  man  has  lived  fifty  or  sixty  years  in  the 
neglect  of  prayer,  for  instance,  with  how  many  difficulties 
will  he  meet  in  the  commencement  of  this  duty  at  this  late 
period,  especially  in  its  commencement  as  an  act  of  family 
worship,  in  the  midst  of  children  whom  he  never  taught  to 
pray  by  precept  or  example,  never  instructed  in  the  doctrines 
and  duties  of  Christianity,  and  never  restrained  from  the  com- 
pany and  practices  of  the  irreligious.  The  mental  agony  of 
the  parent  in  such  circumstances,  while  he  hears,  or,  with 
conscience  all  awake  in  view  of  his  past  life,  imagines  that  he 
hears,  among  his  thoughtless  children,  the  half-stifled  laugh  of 
contempt,  and  the  noise  of  wearisome  constraint,  has  some- 
times overcome,  for  a  while  at  least,  his  best  resolutions,  and 
driven  him  well  nigh  to  the  renunciation  of  all  his  hopes  of 
the  favour  of  God  and  the  rewards  of  his  kingdom.     This  is 


SERMON    V.  287 

but  an  example  of  many  like  difficulties  and  trials,  from  which 
the  young  may  escape  by  timely  precaution — by  beginning 
at  once  the  practice  of  universal  obedience — before  habits  of 
sin  become  inveterate  by  long  contmuance. 

A  third  motive  to  early  piety  is  The  happiness  attending  its 
exercise. 

The  happiness  afforded  in  the  performance  of  Christian 
duties,  and  the  enjoyment  of  Christian  hopes,  is  a  motive  ad- 
dressed to  all  of  every  age.  But  it  deserves  to  be  introduc- 
ed in  this  connexion,  in  consequence  of  the  common  idea  of 
thoughtless  youth,  that  there  is  in  the  very  spirit  of  religion  a 
gloomy  austerity,  at  war  with  the  cheerful  nature  of  felicity. 

The  pleasures  of  vital  religion  consist  in  deliverance  from 
the  reigning  and  destroying  power  of  unhallowed  passions  ;  in 
a  growing  conformity  to  the  holy  character  and  perfect  law 
of  God ;  in  the  exercise  of  devout,  benevolent,  heavenly  affec- 
tions; in  the  favour  of  God,  and  the  approving  whispers  of  a 
good  conscience  ;  in  the  humble  hope  of  present  and  ever- 
lasting forgiveness  of  sin ;  in  that  settled  calm  of  the  soul, 
which  cannot  be  entirely  broken  up  by  any  or  all  of  the  agi- 
tations of  the  world  ;  and  in  the  sustaining,  animating  pros- 
pect of  the  full  enjoyment  of  God  in  the  midst  of  his  holy  and 
happy  family  in  heaven  forever.  Who  sees  any  thing  in  all 
this  calculated  to  take  away  from  the  young,  the  cheerful, 
contented  spirit  of  true  felicity,  and  make  them  a  morose,  un- 
social class  of  beings — unpleasant  in  society,  and  miserable  in 
solitude  ?  What  has  the  world  to  present  you,  my  young 
friends,  that  can  for  a  moment  bear  the  most  distant  compari- 
son with  these  pure,  substantial,  divine  pleasures  of  the  child 
of  God?  The  mirth  of  the  world  is  madness  while  in  posses- 
sion ;  and  the  end  of  it  is  heaviness  and  despair.  Is  there  any 
thoughtless,  riotous  mirth  in  heaven  ?  Say  not  that  every 
thing  on  earth  can  be  turned  into  vanity  and  nothingness  at 
once  by  such  a  test.  No— there  are  things  here  that  will  bear 
to  be  thus  transferred  to  that  world  of  purity  and  glory. 
These  are  the  graces  and  enjoyments  of  vital  godliness.  Most 
of  them  are  common  in  kind,  in  saints  on  earth  and  in  saints 


288 


SERMON    V. 


and  seraphs  around  the  throne  above.  And  in  this  religion 
of  heaven  is  there  not  enough  to  cheer  the  spirit — to  make 
the  bosom  swell  with  the  fulness  of  delight?  If  the  worship 
and  service  of  Jehovah  bow  down  the  spirit  and  spread  over 
it  a  settled  gloom,  heaven  must  be  a  world  of  universal  and 
uninterrupted  melancholy  ;  for  its  inhabitants  rest  not  day  nor 
night  from  this  worship  and  service.  We  know,  however, 
that  the  inspired  writer,  who  was  favoured  with  visions  of  the 
celestial  world,  gives  us  the  clearest  and  the  highest  idea  of 
its  raptures  when  he  describes  it  as  filled  with  humble  and 
holy  worshippers.  And  doubtless  the  purest  and  most  exalt- 
ed enjoyment  on  earth  is  found  in  the  nearest  approach  to  the 
adoration  and  praises  of  heaven. 

A  fourth  motive  to  early  piety  is.  Its  power  to  preserve 
from  the  snares  of  the  world. 

When  the  young  come  forward  upon  the  stage  of  active 
life,  they  are  beset  with  temptations  that  try  the   strength  of 
their  moral  principles,  and  in  the  trial  often  gain  the  victory, 
and  procure  their  ruin.     Youth  is  to  an  important  extent  a 
season  of  preparation  for  subsequent  life.     Who  can  safely 
venture  forth  into  the  busy  world  without  the  guiding  and 
protecting  influence  of  the  religion  of  Christ  ?  What  but  this 
will  certainly  preserve  the  inexperienced  youth  from  being 
led  far  astray  by  vicious  companions,  to  the  destruction  of 
his  character,  his  peace  and  that  of  his  friends,  and  to  the  an- 
noyance of  society,  till  he  terminate  his  career  in  the  infamy 
of  the  dungeon  or  of  the  scaffold?  What  but  this  will  certainly 
preserve  him   from  the  gulf  of  intemperance,  which  every 
year  swallows  up  the  reputation,  domestic  comfort,  health, 
fortunes,  lives,  and  souls  of  thousands  ?  If  the  restraints  of  di- 
vine grace  be  withheld,  who  can  set  bounds  to  human  depravity? 
Who  can  say  what  crime  he  himself  may  not  be  tempted  to 
commit  ?  These  restraints  God  has  not  uniformly  granted  to  ev- 
ery individual  of  any  class  of  persons,  but  his  own  sincere  and 
devoted  servants.     To  become  one  of  this  class,  therefore,  is 
the  only  sure  way  of  always  enjoying  these   restraints,  and 
escaping  the  fatal  consequences  of  their  loss. 


SERMON  V.  289 

A  fifth  motive  to  early  piety  is — The  exposure  to  early  death. 

There  is  no  order  in  death.  The  eldest  of  a  family,  for  in- 
stance, does  not  uniformly  die  first,  and  then  the  next  in  age, 
and  so  on  to  the  youngest.  The  whole  multitude  of  the  liv- 
ing, from  the  man  tottering  beneath  the  weight  of  fourscore 
years  down  to  the  infant  of  yesterday,  are  all  confounded  to- 
gether, and  the  arrows  of  death  are  flying  among  them  pro- 
miscuously in  every  direction.  So  great  a  proportion  of  man- 
kind never  pass  beyond  the  season  of  youth,  that  the  young, 
if  they  would  overcome  their  natural  aversion  to  the  naked- 
ness of  calculation  on  this  subject,  would  tremble  at  their 
prospect  for  a  long  life,  and  feel  the  importance  of  doing 
quickly  whatever  is  to  be  done  as  a  preparation  for  death. 
Were  all  men  to  live  here  to  the  age  of  fifty,  it  might  perhaps 
be  safe  for  youth  to  put  off  awhile  the  work  of  repentance  ; 
but,  as  it  now  is,  they  can  do  it  only  at  a  hazard  which  the 
passing  hour  may  prove  fatal. 

If  a  title  to  a  blissful  immortality,  and  the  necessary  prepa- 
ration for  it,  can  be  obtained  only  in  such  a  dying  world  as 
this,  how  ought  every  faculty  of  the  soul  to  be  waked  up  to 
immediate  exertion,  lest  the  invaluable  prize  be  lost  forever. 

A  sixth  motive  to  early  piety  is — The  fact  that  almost  all 
the  pious  become  such  in  early  life. 

It  is  beyond  all  dispute  that  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the 
followers  of  Christ  become  such  in  youth.  Abundant  proof  of 
this  assertion  may  be  found,  by  a  reference  to  revivals  of  re- 
ligion. Among  those  introduced,  at  such  seasons,  into  the 
kingdom  of  God,  we  see  here  and  there  a  solitary  individual 
of  threescore  years  and  ten,  and  a  small  number  in  middle 
life  ;  while  the  rest,  forming  a  very  large  majority,  are  in  the 
days  of  their  youth.  The  young  come  not  one  by  one  into 
the  courts  of  the  Lord,  to  profess  their  allegiance  to  him,  but 
flock  together,  and  crowd  the  sacred  gates.  It  is  from  among 
them  that  converts  to  righteousness  are  multiplied  as  the 
drops  of  the  morning  dew.  The  infidel  and  the  man  of  the 
world,  who  in  the  pride  of  their  heart  will  not  seek  after  God^ 
may  look  at  this  fact  with  a  triumphant  sneer,  and  regard  it 

37 


290 


SERMON    V. 


as  fixing  upon  the  christian  faith  the  charge  of  fooHshness, 
and  upon  its  disciples  that  of  enthusiasm  ;  but  what  of  all  this, 
my  young  friends,  if  while  they  are  beholding,  and  wonder- 
ing, and  despising,  they  are  also  perishing,  and  you  are  secu- 
ring your  eternal  salvation  ?  Their  laughter  will  soon  be  turn- 
ed into  mourning,  and  their  triumph  into  everlasting  shame  ; 
when  the  day  of  your  vindication  shall  come,  and  with  it  the 
fulfilment  of  your  hopes. 

Though  the  fact,  that  most  of  the  children  of  God  become 
such  in  early  life,  be  treated  with  derision  by  an  unbelieving 
world,  it  is  confidently  hoped,  that  it  will  be  regarded,  by  the 
impenitent  youth  in  this  assembly,  with  the  utmost  seriousness, 
as  having  an  important  bearing  on  their  eternal  interests.  To 
youth  of  this  character  it  is  my  dirty  to  say,  if  you  delay  com- 
pliance with  the  merciful  offers  of  the  gospel  to  some  future 
stage  of  your  mortal  existence,  the  general  course  of  divine 
providence  in  filling  up  the  church  will  then  be  against  you, 
in  addition  to  the  numerous  other  circumstances,  that  are  con- 
stantly diminishing  the  probability  that  you  will  ever  comply 
with  these  offers.  By  present  neglect,  you  are  passing  out  of 
the  sphere  of  this  course  of  providence,  into  the  desolate  re- 
gion of  exceptions,  and  risking  your  salvation  on  the  mere  pos- 
sibility of  your  becoming  one  of  them,  by  an  extraordinary  act 
of  divine  interposition. 

Another  motive  to  early  piety  is — The  particular  promise 
of  God  in  its  favour. 

The  language  of  God  on  this  subject  is,  "  they  that  seek  me 
early  shall  find  me."  In  no  part  of  the  sacred  volume  is  it 
expressly  said,  they  that  seek  in  old  age,  or  in  the  midst  of 
their  days,  shall  find  me.  We  are  indeed  taught,  from  the 
genera]  promises  and  iijvitations  of  scripture,  that  God  may 
be  found  at  these  seasons  ;  but  here  the  subject  is  left,  with- 
out the  addition  of  pecuhar  encouragement  in  the  form  of  a 
prominent  distinguishing  promise.  God  smiles  upon  the  sea-, 
son  of  youth  with  a  peculiar  token  for  good.  He  takes  it  out, 
as  it  were,  from  the  whole  term  of  human  life,  gives  it  a  kind 
of  separate  existence,  places  it  on  higher  grounds,  spread* 


SERMON    V.  291 

over  it  a  brighter  aspect  of  hope,  and  sheds  down  upon  it  ex- 
traordinary manifestations  of  his  favour.  This,  then,  is  the 
time,  above  all  others,  for  securing  an  interest  in  the  love  of 
God,  and  in  the  salvation  of  his  Son. 

One  more  motive  to  early  piety  is — The  obligation  of  man- 
kind to  give  to  God  the  best  of  their  days. 

Under  the  reign  of  the  Mosaic  law,  the  best  of  the  flocks, 
and  the  first  ripe  fruits  of  the  field,  were  required  by  God  as  a 
sacrifice  to  himself.  And  are  not  we,  with  at  least  equal 
strictness  and  propriety,  required  to  consecrate  to  him  the 
first  and  best  of  our  affections  and  services  ?  Shall  we  receive 
all  our  blessings  from  God,  and  in  the  contented  enjoyment 
of  them  forget  the  Giver  during  the  prime  of  life,  when  the 
ardour  of  our  affections  and  the  vigour  of  our  faculties  best  fit 
us  for  his  service  ?  Shall  we  spend  our  strength,  g«d  health, 
and  activity,  in  the  service  of  the  world,  and  then  offer  to 
God  our  weakness  and  infirmity  ?  Will  it  not  overwhelm  us 
with  shame  and  confusion  of  face  to  make  such  an  offering  ? 
Will  it  not  be  sacrificing  to  God  the  halt  and  the  lame  ?  O  the 
forbearance  of  Jehovah,  that  he  ever  pardons  and  receives 
into  his  favour,  a  single  soul  in  the  evening  of  life,  after  a  long 
day  wasted,  and  worse  than  wasted,  in  the  service  of  the 
world  !  Our  Creator  requires,  not  only  the  homage  of  our 
hearts,  but  also  the  active  energy  of  our  minds,  and  the  la- 
bour of  our  hands,  in  doing  good  to  his  creatures  and  promo- 
ting the  interests  of  his  kingdom.  But  how  little  can  a  man 
do  for  God,  who  never  begins  to  serve  him  till  the  last  year 
of  a  feeble  old  age  !  Piety  implanted  in  youth  is  like  seed 
sown  in  the  spring  time  of  the  year.  It  takes  deep  root,  and 
grows  to  maturity,  and  bears  fruit  in  this  season  of  life.  Pi- 
ety implanted  in  extreme  old  age  is  like  seed  sown  in  autumn. 
It  springs  up,  indeed,  but  bears  no  fruit,  before  the  winter  of 
death. 

To  put  off*  the  work  of  repentance  to  the  last  years  of  the 
time  allotted  to  man  on  earth,  looks  like  an  artifice  to  avoid 
the  trial  and  self-denial  of  the  Christian  course,  and  yet  make 
sure  of  its  happy  end,  and  its  everlastmg  rewards — to  obtain 


292 


SERMON  V. 


the  crown  of  triumph  without  enduring  the  conflict — to  se- 
cure heaven  w^ithout  giving  up  the  world.  Have  any  of  you, 
my  young  friends,  the  hardihood  to  treat  the  God  of  all  your 
mercies  with  such  indignity,  as  to  serve  yourselves  during  the 
prime  of  your  days,  with  the  deliberate  intention  of  devoting 
the  poor  remainder  to  him  ?  If  you  have  one  spark  of  grati- 
tude, you  cannot  thus  insult  the  Lord  of  Glory.  No,  you  can- 
not. 

But  you  are  bound  by  every  tie  of  sacred  obligation,  to 
consecrate  to  God,  not  only  the  commencement,  but  also  the 
whole  of  your  existence.  You  have  entered  on  an  endless 
state  of  being.  Will  you  not  now  begin  to  live  for  the  whole 
of  it  ?  to  live  as  you  would  wish  to  live  forever  ?  that  is,  in 
the  service  and  enjoyment  of  God  ?  Will  you  not  devote  the 
whole  of  your  immortal  existence  to  the  God  of  your  salva- 
tion ?  All  is  too  little,  to  make  any  adequate  return  for  the 
unspeakable  gift  of  a  Saviour.  Should  you  now  begin  to 
serve  him,  and  continue  this  service  for  threescore  years  and 
ten  in  this  world,  and  then  rise  to  the  exaltation  of  the  sera- 
phim around  his  throne,  and  serve  him  in  the  praises  and 
thanksgivings  of  Heaven  for  unnumbered  ages,  you  would  find 
a  debt  of  gratitude  remaining,  whose  long  arrears  you  could 
never  pay,  till  you  had  exhausted  the  treasures  of  eternity. 

There  is  still  another  motive  to  piety  in  youth.  It  is  the 
one  brought  to  view  in  the  text,  viz. 

A  consideration  of  the  "  evil  days"  of  after  life. 

The  necessary  employments  and  perplexing  cares  of  man- 
hood render  even  that  a  state  far  less  favourable  to  the  at- 
tainment of  piety  than  that  of  youth.  The  young  may,  indeed, 
be  sometimes  heard  to  plead  want  of  time,  as  an  excuse  for 
deferring  the  great  concern  of  the  soul's  eternal  welfare. 
They  are  so  constantly  occupied  with  the  vanities  of  the 
world,  with  its  dissipating  amusements,  that  they  have  no 
time  left  to  be  serious  and  devout,  no  time  to  think  of  God 
and  to  serve  him.  Then  what  is  the  prospect,  that  they  will 
find  time  for  these  duties,  amid  the  multiplied  employments 
and  anxieties  of  middle  life  ? 


SERMON  V. 


293 


I  appeal  with  confidence  to  the  middle-aged  in  this  assem- 
bly, to  decide  this  point  between  them  and  the  young — to 
say  on  which  side  the  advantage  lies.  Ye  that  have  families 
whose  education  and  government,  and  whose  numerous  wants, 
demand  your  hourly  attention,  from  morning  to  night,  and 
whose  temporal  support,  sometimes,  in  the  fluctuations  of  bu- 
siness, requires  you  to  rise  early,  and  sit  up  late,  and  eat  the 
bread  of  carefulness,  say,  had  you  not  more  leisure  to  think 
of  eternity  and  prepare  for  it,  when  you  were  in  the  unin- 
cumbered season  of  youth  ? 

But  the  "  evil  days,"  and  "  the  years  which  bring  no  pleas- 
ure with  them,"  spoken  of  in  the  text,  refer  more  particularly 
to  old  age — when  the  body  is  bowed  down  with  the  weight 
of  years  and  infirmities — and  when  the  faculties  of  the  soul 
are  impaired  by  disease,  or  benumbed  by  the  frost  of  time. 
Weak,  worn  out,  tottering  frames,  trembling  limbs,  dimness 
of  eyes,  incurable  maladies, — and  with  these  afflictions  of  bo- 
dy, sympathetic  afflictions  of  mind,  shortness  of  memory,  dis- 
traction of  thought,  peevishness  of  temper,  and  the  imbecility 
of  childhood,  are  the  general  consequences  of  extreme  old 
age.  Add  to  all  these  things,  hardness  of  heart,  blindness  of 
understanding,  apathy  of  conscience,  and  the  irresistible 
strength  of  long-continued  habits  of  sin,  and  impenitent  old 
age  will  appear  shrouded  in  almost  utter  hopelessness.  O  ! 
it  is  enough  to  break  the  benevolent  heart  to  see  an  impeni- 
tent mortal,  at  the  age  of  four  score  years,  tottering  on  the 
brink  of  the  grave,  on  the  verge  of  the  eternal  world,  and 
consider  how  hard  it  is  for  one  who  has  so  long  been  accus- 
tomed to  do  evil,  now  to  learn  to  do  well ! 

It  must  be  dreadful,  my  young  friends,  to  drag  out  the 
evil  days  of  old  age  without  the  supports  and  consolations  of 
religion — dreadful  to  go  stumbling  down  the  hill  of  life  into 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  without  a  lamp  to  guide  the 
dim  eye  along  the  dreary  way,  or  an  arm  to  bear  up  the 
sinking  frame — to  behold  the  world  receding  till  almost  out 
of  sight,  and  still  no  heaven  of  glory  opening  to  view — to  see 
the  shades  of  night  fast  gathering  round,  without  any  good 


39^ 


SERMON  V. 


hope  of  the  morning  of  an  eternal  day.  Now,  my  young 
friends,  all  this  misery  may  be  avoided. 

And,  now,  by  all  the  motives  that  have  been  presented  be- 
fore you,  be  persuaded  to  take  that  course  which  will  save  you 
from  it.  By  your  susceptibility  of  religious  impressions — by 
your  freedom  from  long-confirmed  habits  of  transgression — 
by  the  happiness  of  a  holy  life — by  the  preserving  influence 
of  piety  amid  the  snares  of  the  world — by  your  exposure  to 
early  death — by  the  alarming  fact  that  almost  all  the  pious 
become  such  in  early  life — by  the  peculiar  promise  of  God  in 
your  favour — by  your  obligation  to  give  God  the  best,  nay, 
the  whole  of  your  existence — by  all  the  infirmities  and  disad- 
vantages of  old  age — by  all  these  considerations  be  persua- 
ded to  remember  your  Creator  now. 

By  deferring  this  concern  to  the  close  of  life,  you  would 
resemble  the  man,  who  had  a  journey  to  perform  sufficiently 
long  to  employ  the  whole  day,  but  should  sit  down  to  eat  and 
drink,  or  linger  to  sport  or  sleep,  and  when  at  last  the  dark- 
ness of  night  was  coming  on,  start  up  in  distraction  to  set 
forth  on  his  journey.  By  such  conduct  you  would  resemble 
the  seaman  who  should  never  begin  to  learn  the  art  of  guid- 
ing his  ship,  till  just  as  it  is  rising  on  the  last  wave  to  dash 
upon  the  fatal  rock,  or  taking  the  last  turn  in  a  devouring 
whirlpool,  aad  should  then  fly  to  his  chart  and  compass. 

Not  long  since,  a  young  man  in  the  vigour  of  health,  with 
the  fairest  prospect  of  a  long  and  prosperous  life,  was  thrown 
from  a  vehicle,  and  conveyed  to  the  nearest  house,  in  a  state 
that  excited  instant  and  universal  alarm  for  his  safety.  A 
physician  was  called.  The  first  question  of  the  wounded 
youth  was,  "  Sir,  must  I  die  ?  must  I  die  ?  deceive  me  not 
in  this  thing."  His  firm  tone  and  penetrating  look  demand- 
ed an  honest  reply.  He  was  told  that  he  could  not  live  more 
than  an  hour.  He  waked  up,  as  it  were,  at  once,  to  a  full 
sense  of  the  dreadful  reality.  "  Must  I  then  go  into  eternity 
in  an  hour  ?  Must  I  appear  before  my  God  and  Judge  in  an 
hour  ?  God  knows  that  I  have  made  no  preparation  for  this 
event.     I  knew  that  impenitent  youth  were  sometimes  cut 


SERMON  V,  295 

off  thus  suddenly,  but  h  never  entered  my  mind  that  I  was  to 
be  one  of  the  number.  And  now  what  shall  I  do  to  be  sav- 
ed ?"  He  was  told  that  he  must  repent  and  believe  on  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.  "  But  how  shall  I  repent  and  believe  ? 
Here  is  no  time  to  explain  the  manner — Death  will  not  wait 
for  explanation — The  work  must  be  done.  The  whole  busi- 
ness of  an  immortal  being  in  this  probationaiy  life  is  now 
crowded  into  one  short  hour — and  that  is  an  hour  of  mental 
agony  and  distraction."  Friends  were  weeping  around,  and 
running  to  and  fro  in  the  frenzy  of  grief.  The  poor  sufferer, 
with  a  bosom  heaving  with  emotion,  and  an  eye  gleaming  with 
desperation,  continued  his  cry  of  "  What  shall  I  do  to  be 
saved  ?"  till,  in  less  than  an  hour,  his  voice  was  hushed  in  the 
stillness  of  death. 

Who  among  you,  my  young  friends,  can  be  willing,  thus 
to  leave  to  the  mercies  of  an  hour,  the  vast  concerns  of  an 
eternal  scene  ? 

In  view  of  all  the  motives  now  set  before  you,  will  you  not 
be  persuaded  to  make  religion  your  first  and  chief  concern, 
that  you  may  be  prepared  for  death  whenever  it  comes — 
that  you  may  be  prepared,  should  God  spare  you  till  old  age, 
to  change  its  evil  days  into  days  of  happiness,  then  to  "  re- 
new your  strength  and  mount  up  as  on  an  eagle's  wings,"  even 
then  "  to  run  and  not  be  weary,  to  walk  and  not  faint."  So 
shall  your  age  be  clearer  than  the  noon-day — without  a  cloud, 
and  bright  with  the  visions  of  an  approaching  heaven.  Then 
will  the  hour  of  death  find  the  work  of  life  accomplished — 
and  you  will  have  nothing  to  do,  but  to  bid  farewell  to  friends 
and  to  the  world  with  the  high  triumph  of  faith  or  the  com- 
posure of  holy  and  happy  resignation,  and  fall  asleep  in  the 
arms  of  your  Redeemer,  in  the  full  assurance  of  waking  in  his 
likeness  on  the  morning  of  the  resurrection,  and  ascending 
with  him  to  the  heaven  of  heavens. 

But,  if  you  will  not  listen  to  the  voice  of  heavenly  wisdom 
— if  you  will  break  through  all  this  array  of  motives,  and,  in 
spite  of  them  all,  live  as  you  list — why  go  on  a  little  longer. 
It  can  be  but  a  little. — "  Rejoice,  O  young  man,  in  thy  youth, 


S90 


SERMON    V. 


and  let  thy  heart  cheer  thee  in  the  days  of  thy  youth,  and 
walk  in  the  ways  of  thy  heart  and  in  the  sight  of  thine  eyes," 
— give  yourself  up  to  the  pursuit  of  vanity  ;  hurry  away  from 
one  scene  to  another  of  dissipating  and  riotous  mirth  ;  raise 
the  song  of  midnight  revelry  ;  make  as  much  of  the  world  as 
you  can  ;  resist  the  striving  Spirit  of  mercy  ;  stifle  the  rising 
conviction  of  conscience  ;  disregard  the  entreaties  and  admo- 
nitions of  pious  friendship  ;  make  a  mock  at  sin,  and  the  ever- 
lasting burnings  of  hell ;  live  a  few  more  precious  days  of 
grace  in  forgetfulness  of  your  Creator,  "  but  know  thou," — 
yes,  "  know  thou,  that  for  all  these  things  God  will  bring  thee 
into  judgment." 


SERMON  VI. 

LUKE,  i.  66. 

"  What  manner  of  child  shall  this  be  ?" 

This  question  of  wondering  interest  was  asked  respecting 
John  the  Baptist  not  many  days  after  his  birth.  It  was  occa- 
sioned by  miraculous  circumstances,  that  clearly  showed  him 
to  be  the  object  of  peculiar  attention  from  Heaven.  The 
holy  character  that  he  was  to  possess,  and  the  work  that  he 
was  to  perform  as  a  preacher  of  repentance,  had  been  fore- 
told by  an  angel  to  his  father  Zacharias,  as  he  executed  the 
priest's  office  before  the  Lord  at  the  altar  of  incense.  The 
language  of  the  angel  on  this  subject  is  "  Thou  shalt  have  joy 
and  gladness ;  and  many  shall  rejoice  at  his  birth.  For  he 
shall  be  great  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord,  and  shall  drink  neither 
wine  nor  strong  drink  ;  and  he  shall  be  filled  with  the  Holy 
Ghost,  even  from  his  mother's  womb.  And  many  of  the 
children  of  Israel  shall  he  turn  to  the  Lord  their  God.  And 
he  shall  go  before  him  in  the  spirit  and  power  of  Elias,  to 
turn  the  hearts  of  the  fathers  to  the  children,  and  the  disobe- 
dient to  the  wisdom  of  the  just;  to  make  ready  a  people  pre- 
pared for  the  Lord."  At  the  time  this  prophecy  was  ut- 
tered, Zacharias  was  struck  dumb,  as  an  attestation  of  its 
truth,  and  a  chastisement  for  his  unbelief  He  had  been 
speechless  ever  since  ;  and  now  at  the  beginning  of  the  fulfil- 
ment of  this  prophecy,  immediately  after  the  child  was  dedi- 
cated to  God  according  to  the  covenant  of  grace,  and  was 
named  as  the  angel  had  directed,  his  tongue  was  loosed,  and 
he  spake  and  praised  God.  Being  filled  with  the  Holy  Ghost, 
he  poured  forth  the  overflowings  of  a  happy  inspiration  in 
praises  to  God  for  his  great  mercy,  and  in  predictions  respect- 
ing the  future  usefulness  of  this  child  of  promise,  in  proclaim- 

38 


298 


SERMON  VI. 


ing  the  nearness  of  Messiah's  kmgdom,  and  announcing  the 
glad  tidings  of  salvation  through  him  by  repentance  and  faith, 
and  thus  preparing  his  way  before  him.  In  view  of  these 
events,  fear  came  on  all  that  dwelt  round  about  ;  and  all  these 
sayings  were  noised  abroad  ;  and  all  they  that  heard  them 
laid  them  up  in  their  hearts,  saying,  What  manner  of  child 
shall  this  be  ? 

This  exclamation  was  uttered,  or  this  question  asked,  res- 
pecting a  child  in  circumstances  remarkably  pecuUar  ;  and  it 
was  done  with  some  foreknowledge  of  his  future  character 
and  condition.  But  it  was  not  done,  without  any  reference 
to  the  means,  by  which  he  was  to  be  made  so  holy  and  use- 
ful. His  parents  were  both  righteous  before  God,  walking 
in  all  the  commandments  and  ordinances  of  the  Lord  blame- 
less. They  possessed  the  views  and  feelings,  and  performed 
the  actions,  required  of  God's  children.  They  loved  and 
•obeyed  him  ;  they  trusted  in  his  promises  ;  they  kept  his  co- 
venant ;  they  offered  many  a  prayer  of  faith  for  their  child  ; 
they  dedicated  him  to  God,  and  brought  him  up  in  the  nurture 
and  admonition  of  the  Lord,  under  the  influence  of  religious 
instruction  and  religious  example.  It  was  by  the  blessing  of 
God  upon  these  means  thus  faithfully  used,  that  he'  became 
what  he  did — a  burning  and  a  shining  light  in  the  church.  It 
was  not  in  consequence  of  the  miraculous  circumstances  at- 
tending his  birth.  It  was  through  the  means  of  grace  faith- 
fully used,  and  rendered  effectual  by  the  Spirit  of  God,  that 
he  was  fitted  for  the  course  of  sublime  self-denial  and  active 
benevolence  which  he  pursued.  As  the  same  means  tnay 
now  be  enjoyed  by  multitudes,  and  the  same  Spirit  is  ready 
to  bless  them,  we  may  draw  from  this  example  some  impor- 
tant instruction  in  relation  to  our  duty  and  our  happiness. 

While  we  look  upon  an  interesting  child,  the  object  of  ma- 
ny cares,  and  many  fears  and  hopes,  and  the  loved  one  of  ma- 
ny hearts  ;  and  while  we  think  of  the  part  that  he  is  to  act 
on  the  theatre  of  life,  and  of  the  lot  that  he  is  to  enjoy  or  suf- 
fer, and  while  we  think  of  the  rational  and  accountable  soul 
in  his  little  frail  form  of  dust,  and  of  the  unending  existence 


SERMON    VI. 


299 


which  he  has  commenced,  under  the  government  of  the  great 
God  and  Saviour,  how  can  the  question  fail  to  rise  in  our 
minds,  What  manner  of  child  shall  this  be  ?  When  we  think 
of  the  strong  principle  of  depravity  within  him,  and  of  the 
many  strong  temptations  that  he  must  meet,  and  the  many 
stronger  ones  that  he  may, — when  we  think  of  the  ten  thous- 
and circumstances,  under  the  influence  of  which  his  charac- 
ter is  to  be  formed,  for  the  trial  of  the  last  day,  and  for  the 
retributions  of  eternity, — and  when  we  think  too  of  the  cloud 
of  uncertainty,  that  to  our  mortal  eyes  hangs  over  his  future 
course,  and  over  his  everlasting  destiny,  how  can  we  help 
exclaiming  with  a  fearful  interest.  What  manner  of  child 
shall  this  be  ?  How  often,  and  with  what  heart-thrilling  soli- 
citude, must  the  parent  ask  this  question,  respecting  the 
helpless  and  thoughtless  little  being,  in  whose  life  and  happi- 
ness his  own  are  bound  up  ?  Will  he  be  that  wise  son,  who 
maketh  a  glad  father  ?  or  that  foolish  one,  who  is  the  heavi- 
ness of  his  mother  ?  What  return  will  he  make  for  all  the  la- 
bours and  sacrifices  of  parental  love  ?  When  in  the  critical 
season  of  youth  he  leaves  his  father's  house,  what  report  will 
be  from  time  to  time  brought  back  respecting  him  ?  Will  it 
be  such  as  to  give  higher  and  higher  joy  ?  or  deeper  and 
deeper  sorrow  ?  Will  it  call  for  the  smiles  of  delightful  ap- 
probation ?  or  the  tears  of  heart-rending  shame  ? 

When  the  patriot  contemplates  the  child,  that  is  to  be  a 
blessing  or  a  curse  to  society,  by  spreading  around  him  the 
influence  of  a  virtuous  or  vicious  life,  and  thus  strengthen- 
ing or  weakening  the  foundations  of  government,  and  helping 
to  build  up  or  pull  down  its  good  institutions,  it  is  no  unbe- 
coming anxiety  that  prompts  him  to  ask.  What  manner  of 
child  shall  this  be  ?  When  the  minister  of  the  gospel  contem- 
plates one  of  the  young  immortals  of  his  flock,  and  calls  to 
mind  the  two  paths  through  the  world,  in  one  of  which  he  is 
to  walk, — and  the  two  characters,  with  one  of  which  he  is  to 
die, — and  the  two  multitudes  before  the  judgment-seat,  in  one 
of  which  he  is  to  stand, — and  the  two  abodes  of  eternity,  in 
one  of  which  he  is  to  dwell, — with  what  trembling  concern 


300 


SERMON  VI. 


must  he  exclaim,  What  manner  of  child  shall  this  be  ?  When 
he  baptizes  that  child  into  covenant  with  the  Father,  and  the 
Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  how  can  he  but  ask  with  deep  soli- 
citude. Will  the  Father  adopt  him  into  his  holy  family,  and 
make  him  an  heir  of  heaven  1  Will  the  Son  redeem  him  from 
death,  and  present  him  faultless  before  the  throne  of  his  Fa- 
ther ?  Will  the  Holy  Ghost  pour  divine  light  into  his  mind, 
and  shed  abroad  divine  love  through  his  heart,  and  implant  in 
his  soul  the  principle  of  a  new  life,  and  cherish  it  till  it  rise  to 
angelic  vigour  ?  Will  his  name  be  written  in  the  book  of  life  ? 
Will  his  voice  be  heard  among  the  millions,  who  shall  walk 
in  white  upon  the  plains  of  immortality,  and  sing  together  the 
song  of  Moses  and  the  Lamb  1  Who  can  contemplate  with- 
out emotion  the  childhood  of  a  being,  that  may  one  day  be 
exalted  to  such  a  height  of  glory  1  Should  we  view  with 
breathless  admiration  the  starting  of  a  new  planet  in  the 
heavens,  ordained  to  move  on  through  years  and  centuries, 
till  the  end  of  the  world  ?  And  can  we  behold  with  indiffer- 
ence, the  setting  forth  of  a  living  and  rational  being,  on  a  ca- 
reer, which  will  be  but  just  begun,  when  suns  and  planets 
shall  stop,  and  will  be  continued  beyond  them  and  without 
them  through  eternal  ages  ?  Can  we  behold,  without  intense 
interest,  the  commencement  of  an  existence,  which  is  to  be 
perpetuated  in  another  world,  and  there  made  happy  or  mis- 
erable forever,  according  to  the  character  formed  in  this  state 
of  probation  ? 

To  the  child  himself  it  must  be  a  thing  of  infinite  impor- 
tance, that  his  life  should  be  spent  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  be 
followed  by  a  blessed  eternity.  Every  affectionate  parent 
must  feel  an  earnest  desire,  that  the  life  of  his  child  may  be  so 
spent ;  and  every  benevolent  acquaintance  must  feel  some- 
thing of  the  same  desire.  It  becomes  then  a  question  of  deep 
interest,  whether  any  thing  in  the  circumstances  of  the  child, 
within  the  reach  of  human  agency,  can  render  it  highly  pro- 
bable, that  such  will  be  his  future  course,  and  what  can  ren- 
der it  most  probable.  It  cannot  be  rendered  very  probable, 
merely  by  such  circumstances  as  wealth  or  poverty,  exalted 


SERMON  VI. 


301 


rank  or  humble,  secular  learning  or  the  want  of  it.  Concern- 
ing the  degree  of  probability  that  may  be  inferred  from  an 
education  strictly  religious,  there  is  a  difference  of  opinion 
among  men  of  different  moral  principles  and  feelings.  By 
such  an  education  I  mean  not  one  conducted  with  unkind  and 
unreasonable  rigidness,  but  one  conducted  faithfully  and  af- 
fectionately upon  principles  purely  christian,  in  distinction 
from  that  education,  which  is  sometimes  called  religious  be- 
cause it  is  received  in  a  religious  community,  and  under  the 
general  influence  of  the  institutions  of  the  Gospel.  The  infi- 
dels who  have  attempted  to  sunder  all  the  ties  of  moral  obli- 
gation that  bind  man  to  his  fellow  and  to  Heaven,  and  thus  re- 
store the  human  family  to  what  they  call  the  innocent  simpli- 
city and  happy  freedom  of  a  state  of  nature,  are  quite  con- 
sistent in  calling  it  blind  and  hard-hearted  bigotry  to  instruct 
a  child  in  any  religion  as  true,  before  he  is  capable  of  weigh- 
ing for  himself  the  arguments  for  and  against  it.  They  are  al- 
together consistent  in  representing  it  as  unjust  to  the  child 
himself,  and  to  the  community  of  which  he  is  to  be  a  mem- 
ber, not  to  permit  him  to  grow  up  with  his  mind  free  from  all 
bias  in  favour  of  any  religion,  that  when  he  comes  to  maturi- 
ty, he  may  choose  his  own,  or  reject  all,  according  to  the  de- 
cisions of  his  unfettered  reason.  They  would  fain  represent 
it  as  impossible,  for  a  man  to  believe  sincerely,  or  to  know  that 
he  believes  upon  evidence,  what  he  has  been  taught  from  child- 
hood to  regard  as  unquestionable  truth.  And  they  venture 
to  affirm,  that  to  be  instructed  in  the  doctrines  and  duties  of 
Christianity  in  childhood,  furnishes  no  more  ground  to  hope 
that  the  future  life  will  be  virtuous  and  happy,  than  not  to  be 
thus  instructed.  In  proof  of  this  assertion  they  adduce  in- 
stances, in  which  the  children  of  Christian  parents  have  bro- 
ken through  all  the  restraints  of  a  religious  education,  and 
rushed  onward  to  the  rank  of  leaders  in  the  way  of  iniquity 
and  death.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  such  instances  may  be 
found.  It  must  even  be  granted  that  when  men  become 
openly  vicious  in  such  circumstances,  they  may  sometimes  go 
faster  and  farther  in  their  career,  in  consequence  of  the  re- 


302 


SERMON    VI. 


straints  through  which  they  have  broken.  But  are  not  such 
instances  comparatively  few  ?  Are  they  not  mere  exceptions 
to  the  general  course  of  things  ? — exceptions  that  only  ex- 
hibit the  natural  strength  of  human  depravity  ?  Besides  they 
are  far  from  being  in  any  degree  the  proper  effects  of  a  reli- 
gious education  itself,  though  they  may  now  and  then  be  ren- 
dered worse  by  circumstances  sometimes  attending  it,  such 
as  severity  or  irritability  in  the  temper  of  parents,  or  want  of 
consistency  and  uniformity  in  their  government.  It  remains 
after  all  a  general  truth,  that  children  educated  on  Christian 
principles  are  more  Ukely  than  others,  to  be  truly  virtuous  and 
happy  in  after  life.  This  cannot  be  denied  without  denying 
the  connexion  between  cause  and  effect,  and  leaving  us  en- 
tirely in  doubt  respecting  the  path  of  duty,  It  cannot  be  de- 
nied, without  turning  back  the  natural  course  of  things  in  the 
moral  world,  almost  as  much  as  to  turn  backwai'd  the  de- 
scending streams.  It  can  be  denied  only  by  taking  the 
ground,  that  the  great  doctrines,  and  moral  precepts,  and  per- 
vading spirit  of  Christianity,  are  not  eminently  fitted  in  their 
nature,  to  purify  and  elevate  the  character.  But  this  ground 
is  never  taken  by  an  enlightened  infidel.  The  ground  com- 
monly taken  is,  that  a  course  of  particular  instruction  in  these 
doctrines  and  precepts  in  childhood,  while  the  tastes  and  pas- 
sions are  not  under  the  direction  of  reason,  is  calculated  to 
produce  opposition  or  disgust  towards  them.  And  this  opin- 
ion is  embraced  by  some  professed  believers  in  revelation, 
whose  views  of  natural  depravity  afford  them  no  adequate 
cause  for  such  opposition  or  disgust,  whenever  it  is  manifested. 
In  every  other  subject  but  religion,  and  in  every  kind  of  reli- 
gion but  the  true  one,  the  influence  of  early  education  and 
habit  is  acknowledged  to  be  great  and  lasting. 

"  'Tis  education  forms  the  common  mind  ; 
Just  as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree  's  inclin'd." 

This  sentiment  is  universally  adopted  and  acted  upon,  in  the 
various  departments  of  secular  learning  and  employment. 
And  it  must  be  universally  acknowledged  that  the  children 


SERMON    VI. 


of  Hindoo  parents  and  those  of  Mohammedan  parents,  uni- 
formly become  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  by  the  influ- 
ence of  early  instruction  and  habit,  the  confirmed  disciples  of 
their  respective  religions.     And  must  early  instruction  and 
habit  go  for   nothing  in  Christianity?  It  is  true  that  they  are 
less  likely  to  be  successful,  upon  natural  principles  alone,  be- 
cause the  doctrines  of  the  Christian  system  do  not,  like  those 
of  other  religious  systems,  leave  the  motives  and  affections  of 
the  heart  untouched,  or  only  fall  in  with  the  natural  course 
of  our   evil  propensities.      But  is  there    not    some   other 
ground,  on  which  a  Christian  education  might  become  equal- 
ly successful  ?  Though  men  are  never  made   Christians  in 
heart,  merely  by  a  course  of  early  instruction  and  discipline, 
independently  of  the  special  influences  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  are 
they  not  frequently  made  so  by  such  a  course  in  connexion 
with  these  influences  ?  And  would  they  not  uniformly  be,  if 
the  instruction  and  discipline  in  question  were  not  more  or 
less  neglected  ?     Is  there  not  fulness  and  firmness  enough  in 
the  promise  of  God,  to  furnish  ground  for  such  an  opinion? 
Can  any  thing  be  plainer  than  the  language,  "  Train  up  a  child 
in  the  way  he  should  go,  and  when  he  is  old  he  will  not  de- 
part from  it  ?"    Has  not  God  promised  to  bless  the  means  of 
grace,  when  they  are  faithfully  used  ?  Has  he  not  by  a  partic- 
ular covenant  given  such  a  promise  to  faithful  parents  in  re- 
lation to  their  children  ?  May  they  not  plead  that  covenant 
with  success  before  the  mercy-seat,  whenever  they  perform 
all  their  parental  duties  ?  And  when  they  are  unsuccessful  in 
their  plea,  is  it  not  because  they  have  broken  their  part  of 
this  covenant,  by  not  performing  their  whole  duty  ?  True  it 
is,  that  no  parent  does  in  fact  perform  without  the  least  fail- 
ure his  whole  duty  to  his  children,  and  therefore  God  never  be- 
stows the  blessings  of  this  covenant  on  account  of  any  claim 
founded  on  such  performance.     Here  is  always  room,  and 
room  enough,  for  the  mercy  of  God ;  but  this  mercy  is  exer- 
cised with  so  much  regard  to  the  terms  of  his  covenant,  as  to 
be  generally  granted  in  proportion  to  the  various  degrees  of 
parental  faithfulness.     The  question  respecting  the  general 


304 


SERMON    VI. 


result  of  early  instruction  in  religion,  will  bear  to  be  examined 
by  a  reference  to  facts.  In  one  of  the  towns  of  a  neighbour- 
ing State,  there  were  admitted  into  the  church,  in  the  course 
of  forty  years,  five  hundred  persons,  on  their  giving  evidence 
of  being  Christians.  Of  this  whole  number,  more  than  four 
hundred  and  fifty  were  the  children  of  pious  parents ;  they 
were  dedicated  to  God  in  infancy,  and  were  brought  up  under 
the  influence  of  Christian  instruction.  A  multitude  of  similar 
facts  might  be  collected  from  those  towns,  in  which  parents 
and  ministers  and  churches  are  most  faithful,  in  discharging 
their  duty  to  the  rising  generation.  But  enough  has  already 
been  said,  to  furnish  an  answer  to  the  question  respecting  the 
probability,  that  by  any  thing  within  the  reach  of  human 
agency,  the  future  course  of  a  child  may  be  rendered  one  of 
true  virtue  and  happiness.  After  making  all  proper  allow- 
ance for  peculiar  circumstances,  we  may  rest  in  the  conclu- 
sion that  a  good  degree  of  faithfulness  in  the  Christian  instruc- 
tion of  a  child  will  render  it  highly  probable  that  such  will  be 
his  future  course.  In  other  words,  an  education  strictly 
Christian  in  childhood,  affords  the  best  ground  to  hope  for  the 
fruits  of  piety  in  after  life. 

We  come  now  to  several  inferences. 

I.  We  may  infer  that  there  is  great  guilt  in  neglecting  the 
religious  instruction  of  children.  If  such  instruction,  when 
faithfully  given,  affords  so  much  ground  for  the  expectation, 
that  it  will  be  followed  by  a  holy  life  and  a  happy  eternity, 
then  it  cannot  be  neglected  without  incurring  great  guilt, — 
The  child  is  naturally  ignorant  of  divine  truth,  and  needs  to 
be  taught.  He  will  probably  grow  up  in  ignorance,  unless  he 
is  taught.  And  from  such  ignorance,  what  but  evil  can  be 
expected  ?  What  but  an  irreligious  life  and  miserable  death  ? 
The  child  is  prone  to  go  astray,  and  needs  to  be  led  into  the 
path  of  heavenly  wisdom  and  peace.  He  will  be  in  imminent 
danger  of  wandering  from  it  forever,  unless  he  is  led  into  it  in 
early  life.  And  yet  they  who  should  thus  teach  him  and 
thus  lead  him, — they  who  are  required  to  do  it,  by  all  that  is 
tender  in  natural  affection,  by  all  that  is  strong  in  the  claims 


SERMON   VI.  305 

of  society,  by  all  that  is  high  in  the  authority  of  God,  and  by 
all  that  is  glorious  and  all  that  is  dreadful  in  the  decisions  of 
the  last  day, — they  neglect  to  do  it.  Is  there  but  little  guilt  in 
this  ?  Is  there  but  little  to  weigh  upon  the  soul  in  the  dying- 
hour  ?  Who  can  look  forward  without  trembling,  to  the  pros- 
pect of  being  summoned  to  the  bar  of  God  with  such  guilt  ? 

II.  We  may  infer  that  it  is  highly  important  to  give  reli- 
gious instruction  to  children  in  the  best  manner.  Much  of 
the  efficacy  of  it  depends  upon  the  manner  in  which  it  is  giv- 
en. It  should  be  so  given  as  to  excite  a  lively  interest  in  the 
child,  and  make  on  his  mind  and  conscience  a  deep  impres- 
sion. It  should  be  given  affectionately.  This  is  of  the  ut- 
most importance.  The  child  must  see  and  feel  that  it  is  giv- 
en from  the  most  tender  regard  to  his  welfare. "  It  should  be 
given  with  a  plainness  and  simplicity  adapted  to  the  capaci- 
ties of  the  child.  It  should  be  given  with  a  happy  mixture  of 
interesting  variety  and  systematic  constancy.  It  must  be  ac- 
complished with  a  mild  but  decided  and  uniform  government. 
And  it  must  be  enforced  by  consistency  of  temper  and  con- 
duct, in  those  by  whom  it  is  given.  Children  are  eagle-eyed 
in  discovering  the  want  of  such  consistency.  It  should  be 
commenced  very  early,  before  the  memory  is  pre-occupied, 
and  evil  passions  are  strengthened  by  exercise.  And  it  should 
ever  be  accompanied  with  humble  and  fervent  prayer,  and 
conducted  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  with  entire  reliance 
on  the  grace  of  God  for  success. 

III.  We  may  infer  that  it  is  necessary  to  raise  the  stand- 
ard of  religious  education  above  what  it  has  been.  If  an  ed- 
ucation in  childhood  strictly  Christian,  conducted  with  all 
faithfulness,  afford  good  ground  for  expecting  the  fruits  of 
piety  in  after  life,  what  must  we  conclude  from  the  fact,  that 
there  have  always  been  in  Christian  lands  vast  multitudes 
giving  no  evidence  of  piety  ?  Can  we  hesitate  to  say,  that 
such  education  has  not  received  the  attention  demanded  by 
its  absolute  importance  ?  And  ought  we  not  to  go  further, 
and  say  that  there  has  been,  in  the  Christian  world,  a  wrong 
estimate  of  its  relative  importance,  among  the  means  of  grace? 


506 


SERMON    VI. 


Has  not  too  little  been  expected  from  it  ?  Have  not  some 
good  men  felt  too  much  afraid,  that,  by  being  carried  to  a 
great  extent,  it  would  prepare  children  to  be  afterwards  de- 
ceived, as  to  their  real  character  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  thus 
to  fill  the  church  with  unsanctified  members  ?  Have  they 
not  been  too  much  afraid,  that  it  would  give  encouragement 
to  the  opinion,  that  men  may  be  made  Christians  by  educa- 
tion, without  the  special  grace  of  God  ?  Have  not  many  act- 
ed under  the  impression,  that  youth  is  the  earliest  season,  in 
which  religion  can  be  expected  to  appear,  and  that  religious 
mstruction  in  childhood  must  therefore  be  in  a  great  measure 
lost  ?  Have  they  not  been  contented  with  providing  for  the 
instruction  of  children,  in  the  various  departments  of  secular 
learning,  and  for  the  various  employments  of  life,  and  left 
them  to  be  taught  the  truth  of  Heaven,  from  the  pulpit,  and 
by  the  Spirit  of  God,  in  after  years  1  Have  not  Christian  com- 
munities left  far  too  much  to  be  done  by  the  public  preaching 
of  the  Gospel  ?  Have  they  not  in  their  schools  taught  their 
children  to  burn  with  the  unhallowed  fire  of  lust  and  pride 
and  revenge,  caught  from  the  pages  of  heathen  poets  and  or- 
ators, and  then  brought  them  to  the  house  of  God,  to  have 
the  evil,  that  has  been  done,  counteracted  and  undone  by  the 
purifying  and  humbling  and  concihating  principles  of  Chris- 
tianity, as  they  are  published  from  the  pulpit  ?  In  short,  has 
there  not  been  a  great  error  committed  by  the  Christian 
world,  in  regard  to  the  religious  education  of  children  ?  And 
must  not  that  error  be  corrected,  before  the  earth  can  be  fil- 
led with  the  knowledge  of  God  ?  Must  not  more  importance 
be  attached  to  such  education — more  relative  importance 
among  the  various  means  of  grace  ?  Must  not  the  standard 
of  thinking,  and  feeling,  and  acting,  on  this  subject,  be  raised 
far  above  what  it  has  been,  in  the  generations  that  are  gone  ? 
There  must  be  the  breathing  of  a  more  benevolent  spirit,  and 
the  circulating  of  a  warmer  interest,  through  the  Christian 
world,  before  that  day  will  come  when  all  shall  know  the 
Lord  from  the  least  to  the  greatest.     A  work  of  immense 


SERMON  VI,  30^ 

magnitude  is  to  be  accomplished.     And,  thanks  to  the  God  of 
truth  and  grace,  it  is  begun. 

IV.  We  may  infer  that  the  Sabbath  Schools  for  children 
are  eminently  worthy  of  support.  The  whole  object  of  these 
schools  is  to  give  that  instruction,  which,  when  faithfully  pur- 
sued, affords  the  best  ground  for  the  hope,  that  it  will  issue  in 
piety  here  and  immortal  life  hereafter.  This  system  of  in- 
struction is  becoming  one  of  the  great  public  systems  of  be- 
nevolence peculiar  to  the  age.  Its  beneficial  effects  on  the 
parents,  and  teachers,  of  the  children  instructed  by  it,  are  of- 
ten great  and  lasting,  as  facts  abundantly  prove.  But  I  am 
led  by  my  text,  to  confine  my  remarks  under  this  head,  to  its 
beneficial  effects  on  the  children  themselves.  In  the  Sabbath 
School  they  are  taught  their  duty  to  their  parents  and  to  so- 
ciety, and  to  their  Maker  and  Redeemer.  And  they  are 
taught  from  the  pure  word  of  God.  Their  memories  are 
stored  with  its  most  important  truths.  Many  of  its  select 
passages  are  thus  fixed  in  their  minds  while  they  are  tender, 
and  will  remain  there  through  Ufe,  to  check  them  in  the  hour 
of  temptation,  and  to  cheer  them  in  darkness  and  sorrow.  If 
so  many  in  past  ages  have  testified,  that  texts  of  scripture, 
impressed  on  their  memories  in  childhood,  kept  them  after- 
wards from  sleeping  the  sleep  of  death,  may  we  not  confi- 
dently believe  that  multitudes,  in  the  Sabbath  Schools  now 
existing,  will  testify  the  same  thing,  even  in  eternity  to  their 
unspeakable  joy  ?  Or  is  this  too  much  to  hope  from  the  two 
millions  now  instructed  in  the  schools  ?  Do  not  the  several 
thousands,  that  have  already  become  hopefully  pious  even  in 
childhood,  furnish  good  ground  for  the  belief  that  a  multitude 
more  of  them  will  yet  become  so  ?  Respecting  the  effects 
of  the  Sabbath  School  system  on  the  pupils,  as  members  of 
civil  society,  we  have  the  testimony  of  the  venerable  founder 
of  the  system,  that  out  of  the  three  thousand  whom  he  had 
known,  he  never  met  with  but  one  in  prison  for  a  crime, 
though  he  was  for  a  long  time  a  frequent  visiter  of  prisons 
and  houses  of  correction.  According  to  the  opinion  of  an 
eminent  writer  in  England,  this  system  is  doing  much  to- 


308  SERMON  VI. 

wards  changing  the  intellectual  and  moral  state  of  society,  in 
various  parts  of  the  British  empire.  And  another  writer  of 
respectability  in  Ireland,  affirms,  that  out  of  the  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  children  and  seventy  thousand  adults, 
that  have  entered  the  schools  of  the  Hibernian  Society  since 
its  formation,  he  had  never  heard  of  one,  that,  after  his 
education  there,  had  been  arraigned  for  any  crime.  What, 
then,  my  brethren,  would  soon  be  the  moral  condition  of 
any  province  or  nation,  if  every  child  were  now  to  become  a 
pupil  in  the  Sabbath  School,  and  were  there  to  be  in- 
structed in  the  principles  of  the  bible,  with  persevering  faith- 
fulness ?  If  this  were  now  to  be  done  throughout  the  con- 
tinent of  Europe,  how  long  would  it  be,  ere  the  profane 
fooleries  and  insufferable  oppressions  of  popery  would  pass 
away,  and  the  reign  of  darkness  and  despotism  come  to 
an  end  ?  If  this  were  now  to  be  done  over  the  whole  earth, 
how  many  years  would  elapse,  before  infidelity,  and  ev- 
ery false  religion,  and  slavery,  and  tyranny  and  war,  would 
cease  from  under  heaven  ?  But,  to  come  nearer  home  ;  if 
every  child  in  this  city — or  to  come  nearer  still ;  if  every 
child  in  this  congregation  were  to  be  faithfully  instructed, 
from  one  year  to  another,  in  the  Sabbath  School,  in  addition 
to  the  instructions  of  parents  in  the  family,  and  of  ministers 
in  the  house  of  God,  how  soon  should  we  see  a  generation 
rising  up  in  the  midst  of  us,  to  do  honour  to  the  religion  of 
the  bible  by  their  dailj'  conduct.  And  how  soon  too  should 
we  find,  that  the  Sabbath  School  is  the  nursery  of  the 
church.  From  this  beginning,  and  from  what  we  trust 
will  follow  for  years  to  come,  we  may  derive  much  on 
which  to  build  the  hope  that  these  young  immortals  will  be 
sanctified  through  the  truth,  and  thus  made  useful  in  Christ's 
kingdom  on  earth,  and  happy  at  his  right  hand  in  heaven.  O 
the  bright  boundless  prospect,  that  opens  before  them  !-r— to 
the  eye  of  faith  no  visionary  scene.  Ye,  that  are  parents,  see 
you  not  in  this  prospect  your  children  walking  in  the  ways  of 
wisdom  and  peace  through  the  world,  and  entering  the  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  death  without  fear  by  the  light  of  Heaven's 


SERMON  vr.  309 

lamp,  and  flying  into  your  arms  on  the  shores  of  immortahty  ? 
Or  see  you  not  their  Httle  forms,  bending  over  your  early 
grave,  with  mute  and  wondering  sorrow,  till  in  the  desolation 
of  their  hearts  they  remember  their  bible,  and  say,  "  When 
my  father  and  mother  forsake  me,  then  the  Lord  will  take 
me  up  ?" 

Ye,  that  are  teachers,  behold  in  this  prospect  the  reward 
of  your  labours.  Behold  it  in  the  glory  with  which  your  pu- 
pils shine  in  the  realms  of  light,  and  in  the  grateful  smile  with 
which  they  greet  you  in  happy  companies. 

Ye,  that  are  members  of  the  church,  behold  in  this  pros- 
pect, a  generation  rising  up,  to  keep  the  fire  of  devotion  burn- 
ing on  this  altar,  when  you  are  sleeping  in  Jesus. 

Parents,  teachers,  and  members  of  the  church,  is  there  not 
enough  in  the  prospect  before  you,  to  bear  you  forward  with 
increasing  zeal  in  the  work  that  you  have  undertaken  ?  The 
time  given  you  to  perform  this  work  for  the  young  immortals, 
now  on  the  stage,  will  be  short.  Soon  will  the  period  for 
their  receiving  instruction  be  gone  forever.  And  soon  will 
it  be  decided  what  manner  of  children  they  shall  be — what 
shall  be  their  character  here,  and  what  their  condition  here- 
after. 

V.  We  may  infer  that  there  is  much  ground  to  hope  for  the 
speedy  coming  of  better  days  to  the  church  and  the  world. 
If  the  good,  flowing  from  the  faithful  instruction  of  children, 
in  the  truths  of  the  bible,  be  as  great  as  represented  in  this 
discourse,  how  wide  and  lasting  must  it  be,  when  the  full  ef- 
fects of  the  present  extensive  and  extending  system  of  reli- 
gious education  shall  be  seen  and  felt  ?  These  effects  are  al- 
ready beginning  to  appear  in  the  conversion  of  many  parents 
and  teachers  and  pupils,  and  in  their  addition  to  the  multi- 
tudes that  are  giving  themselves  to  the  high  and  holy  work  of 
spreading  the  dominion  of  righteousness  and  peace  over  the 
world.  For  several  years  it  has  been  a  common  remark,  that 
of  the  number  who  have  been  made  followers  of  Christ,  a 
greater  proportion  than  formerly  have  been  youth,  and  par- 
ticularly young  men.     And  from  this  fact  it  has  commonly 


310 


SERMON  VI. 


been  argued,  that  God  designs  to  increase  the  number  of  ac- 
tive and  long-devoted  servants,  especially  heralds  of  the  cross, 
for  the  great  vrork  of  evangelizing  the  human  family,  in  fulfil- 
ment of  the  predictions  of  his  v^'ord.  But  has  not  the  time 
come,  v^^hen  we  may  reason  thus  from  the  fact  that  a  far 
greater  number  than  formerly  are  brought  into  the  kingdom 
of  Christ  in  childhood  ?  Through  the  blessing  of  God  on  the 
present  extending  system  of  religious  education,  are  not  ar- 
mies to  be  trained  up  for  the  conquest  of  the  world  ?  And 
is  it  not  by  the  blessing  of  God  on  this  system  in  pagan  lands, 
that  a  great  part  of  the  work  of  bringing  them  under  the  do- 
minion of  Christianity  is  to  be  accomplished  ?  Are  not  chil- 
dren already  coming  to  Christ  in  the  ends  of  the  earth  ? 
From  the  schools  in  the  West  and  in  the  East  there  comes  a 
cheering  answer  on  the  wings  of  every  wind.  Are  not  the 
rising  generation  to  lead  the  way  into  the  glories  of  the  mil- 
lenium  ?  In  that  promised  flowing  of  the  nations  to  the  moun- 
tain of  the  Lord's  house,  will  not  children  be  foremost,  and 
press  forward  with  the  warmest  zeal  ?  Will  they  not  crowd 
around  the  chariot  of  Zion's  King,  and  attend  him  in  his  tri- 
umphal march,  into  the  New  Jerusalem  of  the  latter  days, 
shouting  "  Hosanna  to  the  Son  of  David  ;  hosanna  in  the 
highest  V 


SERMON  Vil. 


MARK,  xii.  30. 


"  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart,  and  with  all  thy  soul, 
and  with  all  thy  mind,  and  with  all  thy  strength." 

This  commandment  the  Lawgiver  himself  denominates 
the  first  of  all.  It  is  the  first  in  importance.  There  is  no 
greater  commandment  than  this,  Christ  himself  being  judge. 
In  its  whole  extent  it  is  exceeding  broad.  It  is  the  fulfilling 
of  the  law.  It  is  the  spirit  of  every  other  commandment — 
the  substance  of  all  the  laws  of  heaven  ;  so  much  so,  that  obe- 
dience to  any  of  these  laws  without  love,  is  no  obedience. 
Are  we  required  to  live  in  the  fear  of  God  ?  What  fear  but 
that  of  love  ?  Are  we  required  to  offer  prayers  and  praises 
to  God  ?  What  prayers  and  praises  but  those  of  love  ?  Are 
we  required  to  devote  ourselves  to  the  service  of  God  ?  What 
can  this  devotedness  be  but  that  of  love  ?  The  command,  to 
love  God  with  all  the  heart,  is  a  command  that  covers  the 
whole  length  and  breadth  of  the  divine  requirements. 

This  command  is  first  in  the  order  of  nature  as  well  as  in 
importance.  If  we  look  at  the  statutes  of  Heaven  as  con- 
nected with  each  other,  and  arranged  according  to  the  partic- 
ular subject  of  each,  we  shall  see  this  at  the  head  as  the  life- 
giving  root  of  the  whole.  Even  the  command  requiring  men 
to  acquaint  themselves  with  God,  though  it  may  seem  to  lay 
the  foundation  for  this,  can  hardly  deserve  the  precedence  ; 
since  God  has  made  himself  known  to  men  so  clearly,  that 
they  are  not  obliged  to  find  him  out  by  their  own  searching, 
ere  they  can  be  properly  required  to  exercise  love  to  him.  If 
there  is  a  time  when  by  a  natural  necessity,  without  anyjault 


312 


SERMON    VII. 


of  theirs,  they  are  ignorant  of  the  being  and  perfections  of 
God,  there  is  a  time  when  no  command  can  reach  them  and 
bring  them  under  the  obligation  of  subjects  to  a  moral  Gov- 
ernor. But  the  command  to  love  him  comes  in  force  soon 
as  their  moral  agency  and  accountability  commence. 

It  is  first  in  the  order  of  time  as  well  as  in  the  order  of  na- 
ture. It  is  not  a  dead  letter  till  some  other  command  has 
been  obeyed.  It  is  the  opening  communication  from  the 
throne  of  the  Most  High,  to  the  intelligent  creatures  of  Heav- 
en and  earth.  What  communication  could  he  give  or  they  re- 
ceive previous  to  this  ?  This  is  and  must  be  virtually  the  first 
declaration,  made  by  the  sovereign  of  the  universe,  to  the 
subjects  of  his  moral  government.  He  can  utter  no  com- 
mand before  uttering  this  ;  they  can  obey  none  before  this  i^ 
obeyed. 

With  these  remarks  respecting  the  rank,  which  this  com- 
mandment holds  in  the  statute  book  of  Heaven,  we  are  pre- 
pared to  consider  its  nature,  and  some  of  the  supposed  difficul- 
ties of  obeying  it. 

L  We  are  to  consider  the  nature  of  love  to  God. 

It  may  be  observed  in  this  place  as  a  general  truth,  that 
the  religious  aftections  and  exercises  of  the  soul  differ  from 
those  which  are  natural,  only  in  their  moral  character;  and 
this  difference  lies  in  the  difference  of  their  objects.  Fear 
for  instance,  is  not  changed  into  some  other  emotion  by  a 
change  of  its  object.  It  does  not  become  no  fear,  by  becom- 
ing the  fear  of  God  instead  of  man.  Its  character  becomes 
holy  by  its  being  felt  in  view  of  the  perfections  and  claims  of 
Jehovah;  but  the  emotion  felt  is  still  that  of  fear  with  all  its 
appropriate  sensations  in  the  heart  and  fruits  in  the  life. 
Faith  is  not  converted  into  some  other  exercise  of  the  soul, 
by  having  God  for  its  object  instead  of  man.  The  thing  it- 
self is  not  changed,  so  as  to  be  no  longer  faith.  It  is  still  the 
same  principle  with  all  its  appropriate  effects.  There  is  no 
change  but  in  its  object,  which  gives  to  it  a  holy  character. 
So  is  it  with  love.  It  is  not  converted  into  some  other  affec- 
tion fey  being  exercised  towards  God.     It  only  becomes  holy 


SERMON  VII.  313 

by  having  him  for  its  object.     It  is  still  the  same  principle 
with  its  appropriate  feelings  and  actions. 

Where  then,  let  me  ask,  is  the  difficulty  of  understanding 
what  is  meant  by  love  to  God?  Is  it  difficult  to  understand 
what  is  meant  by  the  love  of  a  child  to  a  wise  and  benevo- 
lent parent?  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  source  of  this  affection 
in  these  two  cases,  but  merely  of  its  nature,  as  it  is  exercised, 
and  produces  certain  appropriate  effects  on  the  heart  and  the 
conduct. 

This  leads  me  to  observe, 

I.  Love  to  God  is  an  affection  of  the  heart.  The  heart  is 
the  seat  of  the  affections,  the  spring  of  voluntary  action,  the 
source  of  good  and  evil  in  moral  character.  That  God  is 
able  to  make  laws  for  the  government  of  the  heart  as  well  as 
the  external  conduct,  and  that  he  has  a  right  to  do  it,  and  that 
it  is  desirable  that  he  should  do  it,  cannot  be  denied.  There 
are  men,  however,  who  seem  to  deny  that  he  has  done  it. 
They  regard  the  command  in  the  text,  and  other  like  com- 
mands, as  requiring  no  sensible  emotion  of  the  heart,  but 
merely  the  obedience  of  a  moral  agent,  choosing  to  obey  be- 
cause it  is  fit  in  the  nature  of  things  that  he  should  do  it.  This 
is  the  sentiment  of  a  high-toned  philosophy ;  but  it  is  far  too 
cold  and  speculative  to  suit  the  nature  and  circumstances  of 
mankind.  It  is  wholly  unsuited  to  become  a  general  princi- 
ple of  conduct,  while  the  constitution  of  the  human  mind  con- 
tinues what  it  now  is.  Besides,  if  such  obedience,  as  that  re- 
ferred to,  be  all  that  is  meant  by  love  to  God,  why  is  it  called 
love  ?  Why  is  it  ever  called  any  thing  but  obedience  ? — not 
the  obedience  of  a  melting  and  glowing  heart,  but  that  of  an 
unaffected  and  calculating  judgment '?  Why  are  men,  on  al- 
most every  page  of  the  bible,  required  to  love  God,  and  to 
love  him  with  all  the  heart  ?  Why  should  this  language  be  so 
constantly  used,  if  it  has  none  of  its  appropriate  meaning, 
but  entirely  another  meaning,  which  might  have  been  ex- 
pressed by  language  equally  appropriate  ?  To  say  that  the 
word  love,  in  all  these  instances,  means  no  affection  of  the 

40 


314 


SERMON  VII. 


heart,  is  to  destroy  the  humble  believer's  confidence  in  the 
vv^ord  of  God. 

There  are  others  that  attempt  to  evade  the  force  of  the 
command  in  the  text,  by  saying  that  we  love  God  in  his  crea- 
tures. Why  then  is  there  added  to  this  command,  an  ex- 
press one  requiring  love  to  our  neighbour,  if  such  love  is  all 
that  is  meant  in  the  former  command  ?  If  the  sentiment  of 
these  men  be  correct,  why  may  it  not  be  so  extended,  as  to 
make  the  love  of  inanimate  nature  nothing  less  than  love  to 
God  in  his  w^orks.  Then  will  many  an  infidel  and  profli- 
gate, by  merely  having  taste  enough  to  love  the  beauty  of  a 
summer  landscape,  the  grandeur  of  the  ocean,  and  the  glory 
of  the  rising  and  setting  sun,  deserve  to  be  numbered  among 
the  most  devoted  friends  of  God. 

Others  there  are,  that  consider  love  to  God  no  more  than 
an  intellectual  discernment  of  the  perfections  of  God,  and  a 
corresponding  approbation  of  them  in  the  conscience.  But 
may  not  this  be  found  in  the  vilest  of  men,  and  even  in  apos- 
tate spirits,  while  reason  and  conscience  are  permitted  to  act  ? 
May  not  the  majesty  and  loveliness  of  the  divine  character  be 
perceived  and  felt,  without  being  an  object  of  complacency  ? 
May  not  men,  who  are  themselves  destitute  of  moral  excel- 
lence, discern  and  approve  of  equity  and  benevolence  in  a 
fellow-man  ?  Why  then  may  they  not  discern  and  approve 
of  the  same  attributes,  as  they  exist  in  their  infinite  perfection 
in  the  character  of  Jehovah  ? 

If  any  who  now  hear  me  still  doubt  whether  love  to  God 
be  an  affection  of  the  heart,  let  them  look  at  the  dying  saint, 
who  remembers  his  God  and  Saviour,  after  every  earthly 
friend  is  forgotten.  Let  them  look  at  the  life  of  apostles  and 
martjrrs,  spent  under  the  full  influence  of  a  love,  bearing  all 
things,  believing  all  things,  hoping  all  things,  and  enduring  all 
things  ;  and  then  say  whether  that  love  was  not  a  deep  and 
absorbing  affection  of  the  heart.  Let  them  read  the  glowing 
language  of  Paul  and  David  on  this  subject,  and  then  say 
whether  any  language  can  express  strong  emotion  if  this  does 
not  ?  If  in  a  heart  panting  after  God,  and  a  soul  thirsting  for 


SERMON  VII.  315 

God,  there  be  no  strong  emotion,  where  can  any  be  found  ? 
I  would  not  be  thought  to  intimate,  that  this  fei'\'ent  language 
must  be  adopted  in  its  full  extent,  before  a  man  can  rightly 
think  that  he  has  any  love  to  God.  But  if  love  be  sincere,  it 
will  prompt  to  language  possessing  a  similarity  to  this,  pro- 
portioned in  some  degree  to  the  strength  of  that  love. 

2.  A  knowledge  of  the  true  character  of  God  is  necessary 
to  the  existence  of  love  to  him.  We  may  not  be  able  to  de- 
termine how  extensive  or  how  clear  this  knowledge  must  be. 
A  child  may  love  God,  while  he  knows  but  little  more  of  God 
than  his  existence,  his  goodness  and  holiness,  and  his  univer- 
sal providence,  and  while  his  conceptions  of  these  things  are 
very  imperfect  and  indistinct.  But  it  may  be  affirmed  with- 
out hesitation  that  some  apprehension  of  the  real  character 
of  God  is  necessary  to  the  exercise  of  that  holy  love  spoken 
of  in  the  text.  How  can  we  love  an  unknown  God  ?  or  what 
will  it  avail  us,  to  love  an  imaginaiy  being,  whom  we  may 
call  God,  and  to  whom  we  may  give  only  such  attributes  as 
suit  our  depraved  nature,  and  leave  us  at  ease  in  sin  ?  It  is 
the  only  living  and  true  God — the  God  of  the  bible — that  we 
are  required  to  love.  Can  we  then  comply  with  this  require- 
ment by  loving  some  other  being,  or  some  phantom  of  our 
own  imagination  ?  Or  can  we  comply  with  it,  without  some 
correct  conceptions  of  the  divine  character  ?  To  know  God 
is  so  necessary,  in  order  to  love  him,  that  we  are  sometimes 
commanded  to  love  him  by  being  commanded  to  know  him. 

3.  Complacency  in  the  character  of  God  is  an  essential 
thing  in  the  nature  of  love  to  him.  We  may  love  the  good 
received  from  him ;  we  may  love  our  own  happiness  su- 
premely ;  but  we  cannot  love  God  himself,  without  taking  de- 
light in  contemplating  the  perfections  of  his  character.  From 
all  his  high  and  holy  attributes  there  must  come  to  us  a  di- 
rect power  to  excite  delightful  emotions,  just  as  there  comes 
such  a  power  from  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  some  scene 
of  nature,  while  we  gaze  upon  it  with  the  certain  knowledge 
that  all  its  loveliness  would  be  the  same,  though  we  were  not 
enjoying  it.     God's  benevolence  must  be  the  object  of  com- 


316  SERMON    VII. 

placency  on  account  of  its  intrinsic  worth  in  the  Sovereign  of 
the  universe.  His  hoHness  must  be  regarded  vs^ith  pleasure, 
as  constituting  in  himself  an  infinite  distance  from  all  sin,  and 
securing  to  his  kingdom  everlasting  protection  from  the  evils 
of  its  rage  uncontrolled.  The  spirits  of  heaven,  whose  hearts 
are  always  beating  high  with  love  to  God,  make  his  holiness 
the  theme  of  their  praises.  They  cease  not  to  cry  one  to 
another,  "  Holy,  holy,  holy  is  the  Lord  God  of  hosts."  While 
their  own  character  continues  free  from  every  stain,  they  can- 
not but  view  with  delight  the  infinite  purity  of  the  divine 
character. 

4.  Love  to  God  includes  a  benevolent  regard  to  his  hap- 
piness. God  has  not  made  his  happiness  dependent  in  any 
degree  on  the  will  of  his  creatures.  He  has  all  its  resources 
within  himself — resources  that  are  illimitable  in  greatness  and 
duration.  But  we  are  required  to  feel  a  benevolent  joy  at 
the  thought  of  its  full  and  everlasting  tide.  It  belongs  to  the 
nature  of  benevolence,  to  delight  in  seeing  happiness  existing 
according  to  the  capacity  for  enjoying  it.  How  great  then 
must  be  its  delight  in  view  of  the  happiness  of  the  infinite  Je- 
hovah !  It  is  benevolent  to  regard  with  pleasure  the  happi- 
ness, which  we  have  in  no  way  promoted.  But  we  are  per- 
mitted to  be  instrumental  in  illustrating  that  glory,  by  which 
God  promotes  his  own  happiness.  We  are  required  to  please 
God  as  Enoch  did,  by  exercising  faith,  and  bringing  forth  its 
holy  fruits.  A  child  gives  delight  to  a  parent,  by  exercising  to- 
ward him  the  confidence  of  love,  and  rendering  him  the  obedi- 
ence of  love.  And  it  is  with  such  conduct  in  men  toward  their 
heavenly  Father,  that  he  is  well  pleased.  We  are  therefore 
bound  to  regard  the  Divine  Being  with  a  benevolent  love,  by 
delighting  in  his  happiness,  and  by  rendering  to  him  that  ser- 
vice which  is  pleasing  in  his  sight. 

5.  Love  to  God  includes  gratitude  for  personal  blessings. 
To  love  God  for  the  gifts  of  his  goodness  bestowed  on  us  is 
not  inconsistent  with  loving  him  for  his  own  inherent  excel- 
lence. The  gratitude  of  a  holy  being  is  not  selfish.  The 
grateful  emotions,  filling  the  breasts  of  angels,  that  ever  live 


SERMON  VII.  317 

in  the  light  of  God's  countenance,  and  drink  continually  of 
the  pure  river  of  pleasure  flowing  from  his  throne,  are  not 
waked  into  exercise  merely  by  the  thought  of  that  bliss,  which 
they  as  individuals  receive  from  him.  Their  gratitude  is  a 
more  expansive  and  disinterested  principle.  It  exists  in  per- 
fect consistency  with  the  highest  degree  of  complacency  in 
all  the  divine  perfections.  They  love  God  for  the  intrinsic 
excellence  of  his  character ;  they  love  him  for  that  benevo- 
lence, which  leads  him  to  cause  all  things  to  w^ork  together  for 
the  best  good  of  the  universe  ;  and  they  also  love  him  for  the 
favours  conferred  on  them  as  parts  of  the  whole.  True 
gratitude  to  God  is  no  more  a  sordid  and  contracted  aftection 
in  men  than  it  is  in  angels.  We  are  so  constituted  that  the 
inherent  glory  of  the  Divine  Being  may  be  most  clearly  seen 
and  deeply  felt,  when  with  the  eye  of  faith  we  behold  a  stream 
of  blessings  flowing  from  it  directly  to  ourselves,  and  calling 
for  the  love  of  grateful  hearts  ;  just  as  we  have  the  most  vivid 
conception  of  the  inherent  glory  of  the  sun,  when  we  see 
and  feel  a  stream  of  its  enlightening  and  warming  rays  poured 
down  upon  us. 

6.  Obedience  is  an  essential  thing  in  love  to  God.  This 
obedience  must  indeed  be  that  of  the  heart.  No  course  of 
external  actions  merely,  can  constitute  it.  It  must  also  spring 
from  the  holy  principles  and  motives  of  the  gospel.  Such 
obedience  enters  deeply  into  the  very  nature  of  love  to  God. 
If  such  obedience  be  not  found  in  the  life,  this  love  has  no 
place  in  the  soul.  It  is  such  obedience  that  Christ  speaks  of, 
when  he  says,  "  He  that  hath  my  commandments,  and  keep- 
eth  them,  he  it  is  that  loveth  me."  Love  to  God  is  not  an 
affection  of  blind  instinct.  It  is  not  an  involuntary  aftection, 
flowing  spontaneously  from  the  constitution  of  our  nature, 
and  from  oiir  natural  relation  to  our  Maker.  It  is  the  affec- 
tion of  rational  beings — moral  agents — accountable  subjects 
of  the  divine  government.  It  is  an  established  principle — a 
permanent  affection — and  not  a  transient  passion.  Obedi- 
ence therefore  is  the  proper  way,  in  which  such  voluntary 
love  must  manifest  itself..    The  good  works  of  a  holy  life  arc 


318  SERMON  VII. 

as  much  the  necessary  fruits  of  love  as  of  faith.  They  are  as 
essential  to  the  very  existence  of  the  former  grace,  as  they 
are  to  that  of  the  latter. 

Again, — .Love  to  God  implies  love  to  the  things  that  he 
loves.  It  implies  a  complacent  regard  for  the  truths  of  his 
word,  and  the  ordinances  of  his  house — for  the  church  which 
he  hath  purchased  with  the  blood  of  his  Son,  and  for  the  glory 
of  his  own  great  name.  It  also  implies  a  benevolent  regard 
for  impenitent  and  ruined  men,  and  excites  to  constant  efforts 
for  their  salvation.  Who  can  sincerely  love  a  God  of  infinite 
benevolence — benevolence  constraining  him  to  give  up  to 
death  his  only  begotten  Son  for  the  life  of  a  perishing  world 
— and  yet  feel  no  compassion  for  those  who  are  lying  dead  in 
sin  at  the  very  gate  of  life,  and  lying  there  under  condemna- 
tion, while  pardon  and  the  rewards  of  heaven  are  proffered 
to  them  by  the  hand  of  God. 

Once  more. — Love  to  God  must  be  supreme.  If  it  be 
less  than  this,  it  is  not  that,  which  God  requires,  and  has  a 
right  to  require.  His  command  is,  "  Thou  shalt  have  no  oth- 
er gods  before  me  ;"  and  he  declares  that  whoso  loveth  fa- 
ther or  mother  more  than  him  is  not  worthy  of  him.  That 
his  claim  to  the  first  place,  in  the  hearts  of  his  creatures,  is 
reasonable,  can  not  be  denied  by  any,  who  remember  what 
he  is  in  himself,  and  what  he  is  to  them.  While  his  moral 
excellence  surpasses  in  an  infinite  degree  the  united  excel- 
lence of  all  other  beings,  it  is  of  all  things  the  most  reasona- 
ble that  we  should  regard  him  with  supreme  complacency. 
And  while  he  does  infinitely  more  good  than  all  other  beings, 
and  bestows  on  us  innumerably  more  blessings,  and  offers  us 
infinitely  greater,  is  it  not  reasonable  that  our  gratitude  to  him 
should  be  supreme  ? 

That  love  to  God  should  be  supreme,  is  as  necessary  as  it 
is  reasonable.  He  cannot  be  loved  at  all,  unless  he  be  loved 
above  eveiy  other  object.  He  cannot  dwell  in  the  human 
breast,  unless  he  reigns  there ;  and  he  cannot  reign  in  the 
breast,  where  at  the  same  time  an  idol  is  enthroned.  Love 
to  God  must  rise  above  all  other  affections,  and  hold  over 


SERMON    VII.  819 

them  all  its  high  and  holy  dominion.  It  must  diffuse  its  spir- 
it through  all  the  moral  faculties  and  propensities  of  the  soul, 
and  extend  its  power  to  all  the  principles  and  motives  of  ac- 
tion, and  maintain  under  all  circumstances  its  rightful  ascen- 
dency over  the  heart  and  the  hfe. 

We  come  now  to  consider, 

II.  Some  of  the  difficulties  supposed  to  be  in  the  way  of 
exercising  love  to  God,  These  difficulties  respect  not  every 
thing  that  is  called  love  to  God,  but  that  view  of  this  love 
which  has  just  been  given — a  view  in  which  it  is  represented 
as  an  affection  of  the  heart,  and  the  predominant  one  where- 
ever  it  exists.  These  difficulties  are  sometimes  thought  to 
render  the  existence  of  such  love  impossible.  That  they  do 
not,  however,  may  be  made  evident  by  a  few  moments'  ex- 
amination. 

1.  Love  to  God  is  not  rendered  impossible  by  his  being  in- 
visible. What  is  it  that  we  love  in  one  of  the  most  excellent 
of  our  fellow-men  ?  Is  it  any  thing  that  we  can  see  with  our 
natural  organs  of  vision  ?  Or  is  it  the  moral  loveliness  of  the 
soul — ^the  character  of  the  unseen  spirit  ?  Can  we  exercise  no 
love  for  the  great  and  good  men  of  distant  countries  and  of 
former  generations  ?  Can  we  retain  no  love  for  our  friends, 
whom  we  have  buried  out  of  our  sight  ?  Does  all  affection  for 
them  cease  the  moment  that  they  are  laid  in  the  grave  ?  Or 
while  they  live  are  they  loved  only  when  they  are  in  our  pre- 
'  sence  ?  If  a  fellow-man  can  be  loved  while  unseen,  and  while 
separate  from  the  body,  and  far  away  from  the  earth,  why 
can  not  the  invisible  God  be  loved,  when  he  is  ever  near  us, 
and  we  know  that  he  is,  and  when  we  behold  on  every  side 
such  manifestations  of  his  power  and  goodness,  as  are  best 
suited  to  awaken  frequent  thoughts  of  him  ? 

If  any  thing  more  be  wanting  to  show  that  it  is  possible  to 
love  God  notwithstanding  he  is  invisible,  it  may  be  derived 
from  the  testimony  of  a  vast  multitude,  respecting  their  own 
experience,  confii'med  as  it  is  by  a  corresponding  course  of 
conduct.  If  the  declaration  of  the  tongue,  confirmed  by  the 
whole  tenoui'  of  the  life  for  half  a  century,  can  in  any  case 


320  SERMON    VII. 

prove  the  existence  of  love  to  a  fellow-man,  must  it  not  in  ten 
thousand  cases  prove  the  existence  of  love  to  God  ?  Have 
the  men,  who  walk  by  faith  and  not  by  sight,  no  principle  of 
strong  and  undying  love,  to  urge  them  onward  through  the 
midst  of  labours  and  dangers  and  sacrifices  ?  Do  they  endure 
all  with  patience  or  with  triumph,  and  live  as  seeing  him  who 
is  invisible,  and  do  it  from  respect  to  the  recompense  of  re^ 
ward  at  his  right  hand,  and  yet  have  they  no  heart  to  delight 
in  him  ?  Do  they  not,  rather,  while  thus  believing  in  him, 
though  now  they  see  him  not,  rejoice  with  joy  unspeakable 
and  full  of  glory  ? 

2.  Love  to  God  is  not  rendered  impossible  by  his  infinite 
greatness.  There  are  those  who  call  it  irreverent  or  enthu- 
siastic, to  talk  of  loving  the  eternal  and  incomprehensible  Be- 
ing, who  sits  on  the  throne  of  the  universe,  dwelling  in  light 
which  no  man  can  approach  unto.  They  speak  of  the  awe 
with  which  the  soul  should  be  filled  by  the  majesty  of  God, 
and  the  fear  which  should  be  awakened  by  his  justice,  and 
perhaps  the  confidence  that  should  be  produced  by  his  vera- 
city ;  but  they  say  nothing  of  the  love,  that  should  be  excited 
by  his  goodness.  It  is  true  that  we  sometimes  read  and  some- 
times hear  irreverent  language  on  the  subject  before  us — lan- 
guage in  which  the  infinite  greatness  of  the  Divine  Being  is 
forgotten.  But  this  does  not  render  it  improper  to  use  the 
language  of  the  Bible,  which  is  both  reverent  and  fervent.  It 
is  the  language  of  children  of  God  drawn  near  to  him  by 
the  cords  of  love,  and  yet  held  in  deep  awe  by  the  holiness 
of  his  nature  and  the  majesty  of  his  throne. 

Why  is  it  thought  impossible  for  them  to  feel  such  love  to 
God  ?  If  we  love  moral  excellence  at  all,  shall  we  not  love 
it  wherever  it  is  seen  ?  If  we  love  it  as  it  exists  in  a  small  de- 
gree in  a  child  of  God  on  the  earth,  and  as  it  exists  in  a  high- 
er degree  in  a  saint  in  heaven,  may  we  not  and  must  we  not 
love  it  as  it  exists  in  an  infinite  degree  in  God  himself  ?  If  it 
is  in  our  hearts  to  love  holiness  and  benevolence,  we  can  not 
but  love  God. 

If  the  infinite  power  and  majesty  of  Jehovah  did  not  exist 


SERMON  VII.  321 

in  connexion  with  infinite  condescension,  they  might  render 
it  difficult  if  not  impossible,  for  creatures  of  the  dust  to  exer- 
cise love  toward  him.  But  this  difficulty  vanishes  when  we 
are  assured  that  the  great  and  terrible  God  is  also  the  Fa- 
ther of  mercies  to  the  children  of  men — that  the  High  and 
Lofty  One,  who  inhabits  eternity,  dwells  also  with  the  hum- 
ble and  contrite  here  upon  his  footstool. 

3.  That  God  is  a  moral  governor  does  not  render  it  impos- 
sible to  love  him.  It  has  already  been  observed  that  true 
love  to  God  is  not  a  natural  affection  springing  from  the  phy- 
sical constitution  of  a  human  being,  like  the  natural  affection 
of  a  child  for  a  parent,  but  is  the  voluntary  affection  of  a  ra- 
tional soul  and  a  subject  of  moral  government.  This  love 
then  may  be  claimed  by  laws,  enforced  by  such  promises 
and  threatenings,  as  are  necessary  to  furnish  the  most  power- 
ful motives  to  obedience.  It  is  true  that  love  cannot  be  for- 
ced into  the  human  heart  against  its  will,  by  all  the  majesty 
of  the  divine  law,  and  all  the  terrible  array  of  its  penalties. 
But  that  will  may  be  changed  by  the  power  of  motives, 
which  are  the  only  medium  of  influence  in  moral  govern- 
ment. Where  then  is  the  impossibility  of  loving  God  be- 
cause he  commands  us  to  do  it,  when  by  pouring  out  upon  us 
and  around  us  all  the  riches  of  his  goodness  he  shows  us  that 
we  ought  to  do  it,  and  when  he  has  made  us  capable  of  do- 
ing it,  and  has  set  before  us  his  own  immeasurable  loveliness 
and  our  everlasting  happiness,  to  induce  us  to  do  it  ?  Will 
any  who  go  from  our  world  to  the  last  tribunal  without  love 
to  God,  be  acquitted  there,  or  in  their  own  consciences,  by 
pleading  that  love  is  the  free-will  offering  of  the  heart,  and 
that  they  could  not  exercise  it  where  it  was  claimed  by  the 
solemn  prescriptions  and  denunciations  of  law  ? 

4.  That  God  is  just,  as  well  as  merciful,  does  not  render  it 
impossible  to  love  him.  Is  not  that  a  lovely  attribute  in  a  Sove- 
reign, which  secures  his  government  from  the  evils  of  incorri- 
gible disobedience,  by  inflicting  the  proper  punishment  of  such 
disobedience  ?  Shall  not  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  do  right  ? 

and  be  loved  for  doing  right  ?  If  he  were  not  immutable  in 

41 


332 


SERMON  VII. 


justice,  could  we  feel  that  tlie  interests  of  the  universe  are 
safe  in  his  hands  ?  And  without  this  feeling  of  confidence, 
could  we  exercise  that  of  love  ?  I  know  it  has  often  been 
said,  and  correctly  said,  that  the  transgressor  cannot  be  driven 
to  love  God,  by  arraying  before  him  the  terrors  of  a  righteous 
judgment,  and  a  world  of  burning  agony  and  overwhelming 
despair.  But  it  is  equally  true,  that  he  cannot  be  won  to  the 
love  of  God,  by  the  mere  force  of  arguments  of  kindness  mul- 
tiplied without  number.  He  cannot  be  won  by  an  exhibition 
of  all  the  wonders  of  infinite  mercy.  If  the  Spirit  of  God  do 
not  open  his  heart  to  receive  the  truth  in  love,  he  can  read  un- 
moved the  history  of  redeeming  grace  ;  he  can  hear  unmoved 
the  words  of  life  and  immortality ;  he  can  listen  without 
emotion  to  the  groans  and  cries  of  the  dying  Son  of  God,  and 
see  without  emotion  the  world  of  glory  opened  to  his  view. 

Can  you  not,  my  hearers,  bear  testimony  to  the  truth  of 
tliis  representation  ?  Has  not  the  time  been,  when  all  the 
height  and  depth,  the  length  and  breadth,  of  God's  work  of 
redeeming  mercy  produced  no  eftect  on  your  hearts  ? — awa- 
ked not  one  emotion  of  gratitude,  not  one  feehng  of  penitence, 
not  one  purpose  of  obedience,  nor  even  one  thought  of  holy 
admiration  ?  And  are  there  not  some  among  you,  who  to  this 
hour  are  destitute  of  the  love  of  God,  after  all  that  he  has 
done,  from  one  Sabbath  to  another,  and  from  year  to  year,  to 
exhibit  before  you  his  boundless  love  ?  Have  you  lived  ten, 
twenty,  or  fifty  years  in  God's  world  of  heavenly  light  and 
hope,  and  yet  never  loved  him  ? 

In  the  conclusion  of  this  discourse,  let  me  press  home  this 
single  inquiry  upon  your  consciences  and  your  hearts.  Have 
you  been  surrounded  by  the  glory  of  God  in  his  works,  as  by 
the  light  of  the  sun,  all  your  days  ;  and  yet  have  not  loved 
him  ?  Have  you  been  borne  along,  in  the  midst  of  ten  thou- 
sand dangers,  by  that  right  hand  of  his,  which  rolls  forward 
the  earth,  and  all  the  worlds  of  the  firmament  in  their  cours- 
es ;  and  yet  have  not  loved  him  ?  Has  he  nourished  and 
brought  you  up  as  children,  and  felt  for  you  all  the  pity,  and 
watched  over  you  with  all  the  cai*e,  of  a  tender  father,  and 


SERMON    VII. 


323 


encircled  you  and  crowned  you  with  parental  blessings  ;  and 
yet  have  you  never  loved  him  ?  Has  he  set  before  you  his 
own  Son  crucified  for  your  sins,  and  poured  out  upon  you  his 
Spirit,  and  multiplied  your  means  of  grace,  and  called  upon 
you  by  motives  of  infinite  weight,  and  entreated,  and  com- 
manded, and  promised  like  a  God  ; — and  yet  have  you  never 
loved  him  ?  Has  he  held  open  for  you  the  gate  of  heaven  all 
your  days,  and  pointed  you  to  seats  among  glorified  immor- 
tals, whose  songs  are  all  the  songs  of  love,  and  whose  rap- 
tures are  all  the  raptures  of  love  ; — and  yet  have  you  never 
loved  him  ?  For  what  then  have  you  been  living  ?  What  ac- 
count can  you  give  of  the  past  ?  What  hope  can  you  have  for 
the  future  ?  What,  O  what  are  your  prospects  for  eternity  ? 
Is  there  no  terror  in  the  thought  of  spending  the  rest  of  your 
days  without  love  to  God,  and  at  death  falling  into  his  hands 
without  it  ?  Is  there  no  anguish  in  the  thought  of  standing  at 
his  bar  without  it,  and  lifting  up  your  voices  in  weeping  and 
wailing,  among  those  who  are  to  be  without  it  for  ages  with- 
out end  ?  Is  there  terror — is  there  anguish  in  any  thought  but 
this  ?  Listen  then,  ye  prisoners  of  hope,  listen  to  the  voice  of 
infinite  mercy — "  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all 
thy  heart,  and  with  all  thy  soul,  and  with  all  thy  mind,  and 
with  all  thy  strength."     Listen — obey — and  live  forever. 


SERMON  VIII. 


ISAIAH,  50.  10. 


"  Who  is  among  you  that  Tearetli  the  Lord,  that  obeyeth  the  voice  of  his  servant, 
that  walketh  in  darkness,  and  hath  no  light? — let  him  trust  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord,  and  stay  upon  his  God." 

It  is  an  excellence  of  the  sacred  volume,  that  it  contains 
instructions  adapted  to  every  variety  of  human  character  and 
condition,  and  particularly  to  all  the  diversified  circumstan- 
ces in  the  experience  of  the  child  of  God.  While  it  address- 
es to  all  men  a  general  language  suited  to  all  as  the  depend- 
ant creatures  of  Jehovah,  and  the  erring  subjects  of  his  gov- 
ernment, it  speaks  in  a  more  definite  manner  to  each  individu- 
al, according  to  his  peculiar  wants.  While  it  calls  upon  all 
to  repent,  and  believe  in  Christ,  and  obey  his  commands,  it 
directs  the  wise  man  not  to  glory  in  his  wisdom,  the  mighty 
man  not  to  glory  in  his  might,  the  rich  man  not  to  glory  in 
his  riches,  the  poor  to  be  content,  the  prosperous  to  be  hum- 
ble, and  the  afflicted  to  trust  in  God.  Thus  does  the  Holy 
Author  of  truth  give  to  each  one  a  portion  in  season,  an  ap- 
propriate warning  or  exhortation. 

The  passage  just  read  as  the  theme  of  the  present  discourse, 
furnishes  an  example  of  this  adaptation  of  divine  truth  to  the 
particular  wants  of  individuals,  in  the  case  of  a  child  of  God 
during  a  season  of  distressing  darkness.  In  meditating  on 
this  passage,  three  things  claim  our  attention — the  character  of 
the  man  spoken  of,  his  particular  situation,  and  the  direction 
given  to  him. 

Let  us  contemplate, 

I,  The  character  of  the  man  here  spoken  of: — "Who  is 


SERMON   VIII.  326 

among  you,  thai  feareth  the  Lord,  that  oheijeth  the  voice  of 
his  servant?" 

There  are  many,  who  cannot,  with  propriety,  regard  them- 
selves as  addressed  in  this  inquiry,  for  the  plain  reason,  that 
the  traits  of  character,  here  marked  out  and  made  prominent, 
are  not  to  be  found  in  them.  They  give  lamentable  proof, 
that  they  have  not  the  fear  of  God  before  their  eyes  ;  and  Hve 
in  open  and  uniform  violation  of  his  laws.  Though  they  are 
surrounded  by  his  presence,  and  by  countless  manifestations 
of  his  goodness  and  glory — though  they  are  powerless  in  his 
hand,  and  naked  before  his  eye,  and  are  passing  swiftly 
through  their  few  days  of  trial  on  earth  to  his  righteous  judg- 
ment seat  in  eternity,  they  can  cast  off  the  fear  of  him,  and 
tell  the  world  by  their  conduct  that  they  would  not  have  him 
to  reign  over  them.  To  such  men  the  word  of  God  brings 
from  heaven,  a  message  far  different  from  that  contained  in 
the  encouraging  exhortation,  with  which  the  text  is  conclu- 
ded. The  inspired  prophet,  as  he  contemplates  the  multitude 
around  him,  overlooks  men  of  this  description,  and  searches 
for  those  of  the  opposite  character.  He  enquires  for  an  indi- 
vidual. "  Who  is  among  you,  that  feareth  the  Lord,  that 
obeyeth  the  voice  of  his  sei-vant  ?" 

In  the  fii-st  place,  who  is  the  man  that  fears  God  ?  How  is 
he  distinguished  from  others  ?  By  what  particular  marks  may 
he  be  known  ?  What  is  the  habitual  disposition  of  his  heart, 
and  the  tenor  of  his  life  ?  What  are  the  governing  principles 
of  his  conduct  ?  I  speak  not  now  of  the  man,  who  is  under  the 
dominion  of  that  fear,  which  is  without  love,  and  without  en- 
joyment. I  speak  not  of  the  man,  who,  with  a  heart  su- 
premely devoted  to  earthly  idols,  trembles  at  that  power  of  a 
jealous  God,  which  is  arrayed  against  him,  and  can  at  any  mo- 
ment tear  away  from  him  these  objects  of  trust,  or  make  him 
at  all  times  miserably  sensible  of  their  vanity.  I  speak  not  of 
him,  who,  in  the  proud  spirit  of  rebellion,  and  with  a  supreme 
concern  for  his  own  personal  interests,  regards  the  Almighty 
as  the  tyrant  of  the  universe  instead  of  the  merciful  father  ; 
and  quakes  with  dread  at  the  majesty  of  his  throne,  only  be- 


326  5ERM0N    VIII. 

cause  he  cannot  overturn  it,  and  has  not  the  heart  to  bow  m 
submission  before  it.  Nor  do  I  speak  of  him,  who,  with  the 
burden  of  unrepented  and  unforgiven  sin  pressing  heavily  on 
his  soul,  and  with  "  a  certain,  fearful  looking-for  of  future  judg- 
ment" sending  to  his  heart  a  thrilling  sense  of  present  anguish, 
is  filled  with  terror  at  the  thought  of  that  righteous  Being,  in 
whose  hands  are  the  destinies  of  the  life  to  come.  The  fear 
of  God  that  reigns  in  the  breast,  resembles  that  of  an  af- 
fectionate and  dutiful  child  towards  a  wise  and  benevolent  fa- 
ther. It  is  indeed  more  exalted,  and  has  in  it  far  more  of  the 
awful  in  reverence,  it  being  raised  and  ennobled  by  the  infi- 
nite superiority  of  its  object ;  but  still  it  possesses  much  of  the 
same  gentleness  of  love,  and  simplicity  of  confidence.  He 
that  lives  under  the  controlling  and  directing  influence  of  this 
fear,  is  not  incapable  of  approaching  the  mercy-seat  with  holy 
boldness  in  the  name  of  his  divine  Mediator,  and  enjoying  in- 
timate communion  with  God  in  the  various  exercises  of  heart- 
felt devotion.  His  fear  does  not  drive  him  away  from  God. 
It  does  not  render  God  an  object  unpleasant  to  his  thoughts. 
And  even  when  it  takes  possession  of  his  whole  soul,  it  does 
not  banish  the  light  and  peace  and  joy  derived  from  the  di- 
vine presence.  It  does  not  diminish  these  blessings.  Nay — 
it  produces  the  opposite  effect.  And  why  should  it  not,  when 
it  becomes  deeper  in  the  good  man  as  he  grows  better,  and  is 
deepest  in  the  most  eminent  saint  ?  Why  should  it  not,  when 
in  its  purity  it  lives  and  is  active  in  the  breasts  of  glorified 
spirits,  in  the  world  of  perfect  light,  and  peace,  and  joy,  be- 
fore the  throne  of  God,  and  is  most  powerful  in  the  highest 
and  holiest  of  his  angels  ?  Heaven  is  filled  with  the  fear  of 
God.  Not  a  single  being  there  is  deHvered  from  it ;  not  one 
wishes  to  be.  Bright  and  burning  seraphs  veil  their  faces  be- 
fore their  King,  in  token  of  the  profoundest  awe  ;  and  over 
all  the  multitude  of  saints  and  angels,  even  in  the  height  of 
their  raptures,  amid  their  songs  and  shouts,  there  reigns  the 
solemnity  of  deep  and  unmingled  reverence.  No  one  casts 
off  the  fear  of  God  ;  and  no  one  is  unhappy  under  its  mighty 
influence.     It  prompts  none  to  keep  at  a  distance  from  God, 


SERMON   VIII.  327 

or  to  seek  a  hiding  place  from  his  eye,  or  to  escape  from  the 
society  and  the  region,  in  which  its  power  is  so  great.  If  then 
it  exists  in  the  sinless  spirits  above,  in  connexion  with  the 
highest  degree  of  love  to  God,  and  delight  in  him,  why  should 
it  not  exist  in  the  same  connexion  in  the  imperfect  children  of 
God  on  earth  ?  In  the  latter,  indeed,  it  is  often  alloyed  by  a 
mixture  of  that  slavish  dread  "  which  hath  torment ;"  but,  in 
itself,  it  is  essentially  the  same  in  them,  that  it  is  in  the  for- 
mer. Though  it  is  here  called  into  exercise  by  some  things 
that  are  unknown  in  heaven,  such  as  temptations  to  sin,  and 
the  circumstances  attending  this  state  of  trial,  still  it  is  the 
same  in  its  nature  as  a  principle  of  conduct.  It  springs  from 
a  view  of  the  perfections  of  God,  of  his  right  to  reign,  and  of 
the  excellence  of  his  government — from  a  supreme  regard  to 
his  authority,  to  his  glory,  and  to  the  best  interests  of  the  uni- 
verse, and  leads  to  sincere  obedience,  and  faithfulness  in  his 
service.  While  delight  in  God  has  in  it  all  that  is  tender  and 
ardent  in  theyeeZmgof  love,  the  fear  of  God  has  in  it  all  that 
is  exalted  and  steadfast  in  the  principle  of  love."  "  The  fear 
of  the  Lord  is  to  hate  evil" — and  "  By  the  fear  of  the  Lord 
men  depart  from  evil." 

The  man  who  is  habitually  under  the  influence  of  this  fear, 
— who,  in  company  and  in  solitude,  in  his  hours  of  business 
and  of  leisure,  always  remembers  his  Maker's  claims  to  his 
affections  and  services,  and  is  tremblingly  sensible  of  the 
greatness  of  that  power,  the  purity  of  that  holiness,  and  the 
strictness  of  that  justice,  by  which  he  is  to  be  judged  at  last, 
is  afraid  of  transgressing,  and  thus  grieving  away  the  Spirit  of 
mercy,  and  bringing  barrenness  and  death  into  his  soul.  He 
is  on  the  watch  against  the  approach  of  temptation ;  and  he 
is  armed  to  meet  the  enemy.  He  walks  humbly  before  God. 
He  walks  cautiously  amid  the  snares  of  the  world.  He  ven- 
tures not  upon  forbidden  ground,  in  the  spirit  of  self-confi- 
dence, nor  seeks  for  opportunities  to  show  the  strength  of  his 
virtue.  He  possesses  a  tender  conscience,  always  awake,  and 
alive  to  the  honour  of  God.  He  has  a  moral  sensibility  that 
shrinks  at  the  sight  of  evil,  and  is  pained  at  its  approach.     He 


328  SERMON  VIII. 

lives  in  some  measure  as  seeing  him  who  is  invisible.  He 
lives  soberly,  righteously,  and  godly.  With  a  heart  overflow- 
ing with  holy  love  and  confidence,  he  goes  forward  in  a  con- 
stant course  of  watchfulness  and  active  obedience. 

This  remark  brings  us  to  consider  the  second  grand  trait  in 
the  character  of  the  man  described  in  the  text.  "  Who  is 
among  you,  that  feareth  the  Lord,  that  oheyeth  the  voice  of 
his  servant?" 

If  the  word  servant  refer  to  the  prophet,  obedience  to  the 
commands  of  God  must  still  be  intended  in  the  passage,  since 
the  prophet  was  inspired  and  commissioned  as  a  messenger 
from  heaven,  to  declare  divine  tnath  in  the  name  of  God. 
But  there  is  reason  to  regard  Christ  as  the  servant  here  spo- 
ken of  The  fact  that  Christ  had  not  yet  appeared  in  the 
flesh,  and  with  his  own  lips  published  the  requisitions  of  his 
gospel,  is  not  an  insuperable  objection  to  the  opinion  that  he 
is  the  servant  spoken  of  in  the  text.  There  are  other  parts 
of  the  Old  Testament,  in  which  men  are  commanded  to 
obey  Christ — to  love  him,  and  trust  in  him.  In  the  second 
psalm,  which  is  often  quoted  by  the  evangelists  and  apostles 
as  written  concerning  Christ,  it  is  said,  "Kiss  the  Son,  lest  he 
be  angry,  and  ye  perish  from  the  way,  when  his  wrath  is 
kindled  but  a  little.  Blessed  are  all  they  that  put  their  trust 
in  him." 

The  Son  of  God  made  known  his  truth  to  patriarchs  and 
prophets  by  the  inspiration  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  by  conversing 
with  them  as  the  Angel  of  God,  and  sometimes  by  speaking 
of  himself  in  their  persons,  and  declaring  his  will  as  if  it  were 
their  own.  To  obey  this  divine  Servant  of  the  Lord,  is  to  re- 
pent of  sin,  and  believe  in  him  as  the  only  Saviour  of  the 
soul,  and  perform  all  the  particular  duties  involved  in  these 
two  grand  requirements  of  the  gospel.  Such  obedience  the 
reigning  Redeemer  has  peculiar  right  to  demand,  of  the  lost 
sinners,  for  whom  he  has  died.  In  addition  to  his  high  claims 
upon  them  as  their  benevolent  Creator  and  Preserver,  he  has 
others  of  infinite  weight,  derived  from  all  that  he  has  done  as 
their  Deliverer,  from  the  chains  of  eternal  despair.     If  all  the 


SERMON    Vlll.  320 

righteousness  and  majesty  and  holiness  of  his  throne  furnish 
abundant  reasons  for  his  claims  to  their  affections  and  servi- 
ces, how  are  these  reasons  doubled  by  all  the  condescension 
and  mercy  and  dying  love  of  his  cross.  These  reasons  com- 
mend themselves  to  the  conscience  of  the  sinner ;  and  it  is 
not  for  want  of  a  just  degree  of  strength,  if  they  do  not  sub- 
due the  rebellion  of  his  heart.  By  his  very  constitution,  as 
a  moral  and  accountable  agent  he  is  made  capable  of  render- 
ing a  willing  obedience  to  the  requirements  of  the  gospel.  All 
the  motives  presented  in  the  gospel,  are  just  such,  as  are 
best  calculated,  to  win  him  to  obedience.  But  with  all  this 
ability  to  obey,  and  all  these  motives  to  obedience,  he  contin- 
ues to  transgress,  till  he  is  brought  into  willing  subjection,  by 
the  divine  Spirit,  in  the  day  of  his  power.  He  now  takes 
the  laws  of  Christ  to  be  the  rules  of  his  conduct.  From  day 
to  day  he  does  this  thing  and  that,  because  Christ  commands 
him  to  do  it.  He  no  longer  governs  his  life  by  the  maxims 
and  principles  of  an  ungodly  world,  but  by  those  which  will 
bear  the  scrutiny  of  the  Searcher  of  hearts  and  the  test  of 
the  final  judgment.  It  is  his  high  aim,  to  act  always  with 
suprenle  reference  to  the  authority  of  the  King  of  Righteous- 
ness, and  bring  every  thought  and  feeling  and  imagination  in- 
to sweet  subjection  to  the  Prince  of  Peace.  He  endeavours 
to  live  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  have  always  a  conscience  void 
of  offence  toward  God  and  toward  men.  The  common  rel- 
ative duties  of  social  Hfe,  he  performs  with  as  strict  a  regard 
to  the  divine  commands,  as  he  does  those  that  are  more  sa- 
cred to  special  occasions,  and  have  the  Divine  Being  more 
directly  for  their  object.  And  in  every  thing  that  he  does, 
he  feels  his  accountability  to  the  great  Lawgiver  and  Judge 
of  the  universe  and  his  obligation  to  glorify  him. 

Having  now  before  us  a  brief  and  general  description  of 
the  man,  who  fears  God  and  obeys  the  Gospel  of  his  Son,  we 
are  prepared  to  contemplate, 

n.  His  particular  situation,  as  spoken  of  in  the  text — "  that 

of  one  walking  in  darkness  and  having  no  light." 

Though  the  darkness  here  mentioned,  may  be  considered 

42 


SERMON   Vlll. 

SO  general,  as  to  include  any  severe  calamity  or  affliction 
which  the  righteous  have  to  endure,  yet  in  the  language  of  the 
text,  as  a  vs^hole,  there  is  sufficient  peculiarity,  to  justify  its 
being  applied,  with  special  force,  to  that  state  of  mind,  in 
which  the  light  of  God's  countenance  is  hidden,  and  the  sen- 
sible manifestation  of  his  presence  and  favour  is  withdrawn. 
To  this  particular  application  the  present  discourse  is  design- 
ed to  have  a  prominent  reference. 

When  a  child  of  God  falls  into  open  and  gross  sin,  and 
then  lives  in  neglect  of  the  duties  of  the  closet  and  the  ordi- 
nances of  the  sanctuary,  or  observes  them  without  the  spirit  of 
devotion  and  without  any  relish  for  them,  we  are  not  surpris- 
ed to  see  him  walking  in  spiritual  darkness,  without  the  light 
of  the  divine  presence,  and  without  the  smile  of  a  reconciled 
Father.  This  is  what  we  expect  to  see  in  such  circumstan- 
ces. This  is  what  we  wish  to  see,  as  the  effect  of  such  griev- 
ous backsliding.  We  think  it  much  more  in  his  favour,  to 
behold  him  cast  down  in  spirit,  and  enveloped  in  darkness, 
during  his  departure  from  God,  than  to  behold  him  cheerful 
and  confident.  But  the  case,  here  introduced,  is  not  the  one 
contemplated  in  the  text  ;  for  to  a  man  so  deeply  fallen,  the 
proper  direction,  instead  of  being  the  encouraging  one,  '  Let 
him  trust  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  and  stay  himself  upon  his 
God,'  is  rather  the  alarming  one.  Let  him  repent,  and  weep 
in  bitterness  of  soul,  and  break  off  his  sins  by  righteousness, 
and  return  unto  the  Lord,  that  iniquity  be  not  his  ruin.  The 
man  spoken  of  in  the  text,  is  represented  as  ii^  a  state  of  dis- 
tressing darkness,  at  the  time  that  his  habitual  course  of  con- 
duct, notwithstanding  many  imperfections,  is  such  as  to  show, 
thai  he  is  living  in  the  fear  of  God,  and  in  obedience  to  his 
requirements.  This  is  not  a  case  introduced  by  the  sacred 
prophet  as  a  mere  supposition.  It  is  one  that  often  exists  in 
real  life  ;  as  the  private  history  of  good  men,  in  every  age  of 
the  church,  clearly  shows.  It  is  found  in  some  part  of  al- 
most every  example  of  such  history.  Many  of  the  most  em- 
inent saints  have  for  a  season  felt  themselves  forsaken  of  God, 
and  left  to  mourn  the  loss  of  spiritual  light  nnrl   enjoyment. 


SERMON  VIII,  331 

David  often  laments,  in  strains  of  the  deepest  and  tenderest 
sorrow,  the  hidings  of  God's  countenance,  and  the  departure 
of  his  Spirit ;  and  Job,  at  a  particular  period  of  his  life,  when 
overwhelmed  with  outward  calamities,  mourns  over  his  de- 
sertion by  God,  as  an  additional  stroke,  too  heavy  to  be  borne. 
He  cries  out  in  the  bitterness  of  his  grief,  "  Oh  that  I  knew 
where  I  might  find  him  !  that  I  might  come  even  to  his  seat ! 
Behold,  I  go  forward,  but  he  is  not  there  ;  and  backward, 
but  I  cannot  perceive  him  ;  on  the  left  hand,  where  he  doth 
work,  but  I  cannot  behold  him  :  he  hideth  himself  on  the 
right  hand,  that  I  cannot  see  him."  Many  remarkable  in- 
stances, of  similar  desertion,  might  be  adduced  from  the  lives 
of  devoted  Christians — such  as  Baxter,  Cowper,  Scott,  Brain- 
erd,  and  Bellamy.  Instances  of  a  less  striking  character  are 
frequently  occurring,  within  the  reach  of  common  obsei-va- 
tion,  and  within  the  limits  of  each  particular  church.  Per- 
haps, indeed,  there  are  but  few  Christians,  who  have  been 
such  for  any  considerable  number  of  years,  without  suffering 
some  distressing  interruption  in  their  enjoyment  of  God's  gra- 
cious presence,  and  walking  for  a  time  in  cheerless  darkness. 
Happy  beyond  the  common  lot  is  the  child  of  God,  whose 
sky  is  never  clouded,  and  whose  path  is  always  enlightened 
by  the  Sun  of  Righteousness. 

Respecting  the  nature  of  that  spiritual  darkness,  through 
seasons  of  which  so  many  of  the  heirs  of  heaven  are  called  to 
pass  in  their  pilgrimage  below,  it  may  be  sufficient  to  remark, 
that  it  consists  essentially  in  the  loss  of  that  happiness,  which 
springs  from  the  hope  of  God's  present  and  everlasting  fa- 
vour, and  in  a  deep  enduring  sense  of  that  loss.  In  this  res- 
pect, it  is  the  same  m  all  instances  ;  while,  in  other  respects, 
it  varies,  in  some  degree,  according  to  the  various  causes  pro- 
ducing it,  and  the  various  circumstances  with  which  it  is  at- 
tended. Some  of  these  causes  and  circumstances  are,  the 
kind  of  education,  mode  of  life,  constitutional  temperament, 
overwhelming  affliction,  error  in  doctrine,  strong  temptation, 
the  malice  of  Satan,  and  the  sovereign  will  of  God  for  the 
trial  of  faith.     This  variety  of  causes  and  circumstances  re- 


332  SERMON  VIII. 

quires  a  corresponding  variety  of  particular  directions ;  but 
does  not  destroy  the  propriety,  nor  lessen  the  importance,  of 
others  that  are  general.  Such  there  are  in  the  sacred  volume  ; — 
those  that  are  adapted  to  every  humble  and  obedient  child  of 
God,  who,  from  any  cause,  and  under  any  circumstances,  is 
Avalking  in  spiritual  darkness. 

This  brings  us  to  contemplate, 

III.  The  direction  given  to  him  in  the  text, — "  Let  him 
trust  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  and  stay  upon  his  God." 

While  the  thoughtless  men  of  the  world,  and  even  its  so- 
ber moralists,  direct  the  desponding  Christian,  to  seek  relief 
in  the  noise  and  hurry  of  business  with  its  multitude  of  cares, 
or  amid  the  exhilarating  sights  and  sounds  of  pleasure,  and 
while  the  philosopher  directs  him  to  his  own  resources  in  the 
pride  of  his  fallen  nature,  the  inspired  prophet  gives  him  the 
far  different  direction  now  before  us.  While  one  voice  in- 
vites him  this  way,  and  another  that,  into  promised  regions  of 
light  and  joy,  and  a  third  bids  him  stand  still  and  suffer  with 
a  stoical  apathy,  a  voice  from  heaven  calls  upon  him,  to  look 
up  with  holy  confidence  to  the  throne  of  the  Most  High. 
Whatever  may  be  the  occasion  of  his  sad  despondency,  let 
him  listen  to  this  voice  of  love  divine,  and  he  cannot  fail  of 
finding  relief,  in  the  return  of  his  hopes  and  joys.  "  Let  him 
trust  in  the  name  of  the  Lord."  Let  him  confide  entirely  in 
the  power,  and  Avisdom,  and  goodness,  of  his  Father  in  heav- 
en. Let  him  believe  with  all  his  heart  when  he  cannot  see, 
and  love  when  he  cannot  rejoice,  and  serve  when  he  cannot 
hope.  Let  him  give  up  himself,  and  all  his  interests,  into  the 
hands  of  the  great  and  glorious  Jehovah,  without  a  doubt  res- 
pecting the  rectitude  of  his  government,  or  a  murmur  against 
the  chastisement  of  his  providence,  or  a  fear  for  the  consum- 
mation of  all  things  in  the  highest  good  of  the  universe.  Let 
him  not  faint,  and  sink  in  despair  : — "  let  him  stay  himself 
upon  his  God."  Let  him  lean  for  support  on  the  arm  of  the 
Almighty  ;  and  cast  his  whole  burden  upon  it ;  and  pour  out 
his  sorrows  before  the  eye  of  infinite  mercy  ;  and  look,  and 
watch,  with  anxious   longing,   for  the  smile  of  everlasting 


SERMON    VIII. 


333 


love.  Let  him  not  yield  for  a  moment  to  the  suggestion, 
that  Gk)d  has  forgotten  to  be  gracious — that  he  in  anger 
has  shut  up  his  tender  mercy,  and  vv^ill  be  favourable  no 
more. 

Let  him  trust  in  that  mercy  which  is  free  as  the  light,  rich 
as  heaven,  and  lasting  as  eternity.  While  he  feels  the  loss  of 
spiritual  comfort,  and  mourns  over  it,  he  surely  has  no  reason 
to  think  himself  given  up  to  a  reprobate  mind,  and  to  the  hor- 
rors of  unpardonable  guilt.  Why  should  he  regard  his  crimes 
as  too  great  to  be  forgiven,  when  he  knows  that  the  blood  of 
Christ  cleanseth  from  all  sin,  and  that  there  are  already, 
among  the  ransomed  and  glorified  immortals  of  heaven,  some 
that  were  once  transgressors  as  vile  as  himself?  Let  him 
trust  in  God  in  the  faithful  use  of  the  means  of  grace.  Let 
him  not  neglect  the  bible,  as  a  sealed  book  ;  nor  open  it  only 
to  find  bitter  things  against  himself  Let  him  not  close  his 
eyes  against  every  ray  of  light,  and  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  every 
word  of  consolation.  Let  him  not  envelope  himself  in  a 
thicker  cloud,  and  increase  his  distance  from  the  Sun  of 
Righteousness,  by  shutting  himself  away  from  the  privileges 
of  Christian  intercourse  and  public  worship.  Let  him  not  re- 
fuse to  come  to  the  consecrated  table  of  the  Lord,  from  the 
fear  of  a  fatal  unworthiness.  In  his  attendance  to  the  means 
of  grace,  and  the  duties  of  religion,  let  him  be  governed  by 
principle  instead  of  feeling.  Let  him  not  cease  to  pray, 
when  he  feels  no  delight  in  prayer.  On  the  contrary,  let  him 
pray  with  more  fervency  and  perseverance,  till  his  heart 
grows  warm,  and  his  importunity  prevails.  The  devotions 
of  the  closet,  and  the  services  and  ordinances  of  the  sanctu- 
ary, he  is  not  at  liberty  to  neglect,  because  he  has  lost  for  a 
while  the  sensible  manifestation  of  the  divine  blessing.  His 
course  is  marked  out  for  him  by  the  hand  of  God ;  and,  in 
that  must  he  walk  without  fainting  or  wandering.  No  dark- 
ness that  he  may  find,  no  coldness  that  he  may  feel,  no  want 
of  enjoyment  that  he  may  experience,  can  justify  him  in  de 
parting  from  it. 


334  SERMON    VIII. 

Finally, — Let  him  trust  in  God  in  a  course  of  active  be- 
nevolence. Committing  himself  entirely,  with  his  own  pe- 
culiar wants  and  sorrows,  into  the  hands  of  his  merciful  Fa- 
ther, and  leaving  all  there  in  the  forgetfulness  of  implicit  con- 
fidence, let  him  expend  his  thoughts,  and  feelings,  and  time, 
and  talents,  in  supplying  the  wants  and  relieving  the  sorrows 
of  others.  Let  him  diligently  employ  the  passing  hours  in  do- 
ing good,  and  forget  the  past.  Let  him  press  forward  in  pur- 
suit of  hope,  instead  of  looking  back  for  this  heavenly  com- 
panion, or  idly  waiting  for  her  return.  She  forsook  him 
while  he  slept,  or  wandered,  or  fainted.  If  he  would  find 
her  again,  let  him  not  run  back,  and  search  the  ground  that 
he  has  gone  over,  but  press  forward,  and  double  his  speed,  to 
regain  lost  time  ;  and  soon  the  glimmering  of  her  distant  lamp 
shall  greet  his  longing  eye  and  cheer  his  benighted  soul.  Her 
perfect  light  shall  ere  long  shine  around  him,  if  he  stray  not, 
nor  slumber,  nor  grow  weary  again.  Or  rather,  if  he  would 
regain  lost  hope,  let  him  not  make  her  the  direct  object  of 
pursuit,  but  pray  and  act,  and  she  will  come  unsought ;  the 
timid  angel  will  then  quickly  return  ;  for  prayer  and  action 
are  the  wings  of  hope. 

Let  him  thus  go  forward  in  the  path  of  duty  ;  and,  after 
the  trial  of  his  faith,  he  shall  come  forth  as  gold  seven  times 
purified.  This  remark  is  warranted  by  christian  experience. 
An  eminent  minister  of  Christ,  was  once,  for  a  considerable 
season,  in  such  deep  spiritual  darkness,  as  to  give  up  all  hope 
of  the  forgiving  mercy  of  God  and  the  happiness  of  an  eter- 
nity in  his  presence.  This  was  after  he  had  been  for  some 
years  a  faithful  and  successful  preacher  of  the  gospel,  and  had 
given  to  all  around  him  the  best  evidence  of  his  being  in  real- 
ity a  follower  of  Christ.  He  came  however  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  was  a  self-deceiver,  and  should  finally  be  a  cast-away. 
His  inquiry  now  was,  What  shall  I  do  the  rest  of  my  days  on 
earth  ?  In  what  manner  shall  I  spend  them  ?  Shall  I  now 
give  myself  up  to  the  pursuit  of  earthly  vanities,  and  abandon 
the  service  of  God  ?  Shall  I  no  longer  make  any  attempt  to 


SERMON  VIII.  335 

glorify  him  ?  What  other  object  can  I  propose  to  myself  worth 
living  for  ?  Will  it  not  be  at  least  as  well  for  me  in  the  end, 
to  continue  steadfast  through  life  in  his  service,  as  to  desert 
it  for  the  service  of  Satan  ?  My  resolution  then  is  formed — 
I  will  preach  the  gospel  faithfully  till  death,  and  leave  the 
eternal  interests  of  my  soul  in  the  hands  of  God,  and  then  if 
I  go  down  to  hell,  I  shall  have  the  satisfaction  of  looking  up- 
ward and  seeing  others  going  to  heaven,  who  were  directed 
thither  by  my  hand.  In  consequence  of  his  acting  in  accor- 
dance with  this  resolution,  his  darkness  soon  vanished,  and 
light  divine  broke  in  upon  his  soul.  But  if  in  the  case  of  any 
desponding  saint  this  happy  result  be  long  delayed,  let  him 
not  cease  to  trust  in  the  wisdom,  rectitude,  and  infinite  bene- 
volence of  God,  Let  him  trust  and  trust  till  death.  Let  his 
constant  language  be,  "  Though  he  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust 
in  him" — though  he  strip  me  of  every  earthly  good,  and  then 
hide  his  face  from  me,  yet  "  why  art  thou  cast  down,  O  my 
soul  ?  why  art  thou  disquieted  in  me  ?  Hope  thou  in  God, 
for  I  shall  yet  praise  him  for  the  help  of  his  countenance." — 
Let  him  take  to  his  heart  the  consolation  of  the  full  assurance, 
that  whatever  may  become  of  him,  there  will  always  be  a 
God — there  will  always  be  a  God  of  goodness  and  glory,  on 
the  throne  of  the  universe  ;  and  he  will  always  have  an  innu- 
merable company  of  holy  and  happy  beings,  to  live  in 
his  presence,  enjoy  his  smiles,  perform  his  commands, 
and  sing  his  praises.  I  would  not,  for  the  world,  lift  my  fin- 
ger against  the  government  of  such  a  God;  — no,  I  would  not, 
though  it  were  to  raise  me  to  the  rank  of  an  archangel.  Let 
God  reign  ;  let  his  will  be  done  ;  let  his  name  be  glorified  ; 
and  it  is  enough. 

If  such  be  the  language  and  spirit  of  the  Christian  in  the 
time  of  darkness,  he  will  soon  be  brought  into  a  region  of 
light — he  will  have  light  through  his  pilgrimage  below,  and 
light  at  the  end,  in  the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  ; 
or  if  not,  let  him  trust  in  God  entirely,  and  trust  on  through 
every  trial  till  death,  without  wavering  and  without  abandon- 


336 


SERMON    VIII. 


ing  the  service  of  God,  and  when  this  transient  night  of  dark- 
ness is  past,  and  the  morning  of  eternity  has  come,  and  pour- 
ed full  day  on  all  the  works  and  ways  of  the  Most  High, 
he  will  be  satisfied,  and  more  than  satisfied,  as  he  awakes 
in  a  world  of  perfect  light — in  the  general  assembly  of  the 
sons  of  light — and  in  the  unveiled  presence  of  the  God  of 
light. 


SERMON  IX. 


rviATTHEW,  xi.  28. 

"  Come  unto  me,  nil  3'e  that  labour,  and  are  heavy  laden  ;  and  I  will  give  you 
rest." 

These  memorable  words  of  Christ  were  addressed  to  the 
great  multitude,  in  distinction  from  the  twelve  apostles,  and 
from  the  scribes  and  Pharisees.  Taken  in  connexion  with 
the  context  and  other  passages,  they  bring  to  view  the  easy 
requirements  of  the  gospel,  and  exhibit  them  in  strong  con- 
trast with  the  burdensome  rites  of  Judaism  as  it  then  existed. 
The  service  enjoined  by  the  scribes  and  Pharisees,  is  here 
represented  as  a  miserable  bondage,  w  hile  that  of  Christ  is  a 
happy  freedom ;  and  the  text  is  an  affectionate  and  earnest 
invitation,  to  leave  their  service  for  his,  on  account  of  this  dif- 
ference. "  Go  not  after  them,"  says  the  compassionate  Re- 
deemer according  to  the  full  import  of  this  invitation,  "  Go  not 
after  them,  for  they  bind  heavy  burdens,  and  grievous  to  be 
borne,  and  lay  them  on  men's  shoulders ;  but  they  themselves 
will  not  move  them  with  one  of  their  fingers" — "  but  come 
unto  me  all  ye  that  labour,  and  are  heavy  laden ;  and  I  will 
give  you  rest ;  take  m\j  yoke  upon  you,  and  learn  of  me  ;  for 
I  am  meek  and  lowly  in  heart :  and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto 
your  souls  :  for  my  yoke  is  easy  and  my  burden  is  lights 

Such  is  the  particular  course  of  reasoning,  in  which  the 
text  occurs  as  it  was  originally  spoken.  But  this  reasoning, 
instead  of  limiting  the  invitation  of  the  text  to  that  class  of 
persons  to  which  it  was  first  given,  clearly  implies  its  exten- 
sion to  all  others  in  circumstances  sufficiently  similar  to  ren- 
der it  applicable.     Though  it  vs^as  given  with  primarj^  refer- 

43 


338 


SERMON  IX. 


ence  to  those,  that  were  burdened  by  the  ceremonial  observ- 
ances, imposed  with  intolerable  severity  by  the  hypocritical 
scribes  and  Pharisees,  yet  the  nature  of  it,  viewed  in  connex- 
ion with  the  character  and  divine  mission  of  its  Author,  leaves 
no  room  to  doubt,  that  it  may  be  extended  as  far  as  any  oc- 
casion for  it  is  to  be  found  among  the  children  of  men.  But 
where  shall  we  look,  to  find  no  occasion  for  it  ?  Where  shall 
we  look  for  the  persons,  to  whom  it  cannot  with  propriety  be 
addressed  1  If  there  be  any,  who  have  no  burden  of  grief  or 
of  guilt  to  be  removed,  no  wounds  of  the  heart  to  be  healed, 
no  tumult  of  contending  passions  to  be  hushed  to  peace,  no 
tears  to  be  wiped  away,  no  sins  to  be  forgiven,  and  no  soul 
to  be  saved,  they  have  no  need  to  listen  to  this  invitation. 
They  can  lose  nothing  by  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  it.  They  can 
gain  nothing  by  accepting  it.  Indeed  they  cannot  accept  it. 
If  there  be  any  in  this  house,  who  have  no  need  of  divine 
light,  to  guide  them  through  this  wilderness,  and  through  the 
dark  valley  at  the  end ;  and  no  need  of  divine  strength,  to 
sustain  them  under  the  weight  of  earthly  trials,  to  deliver  them 
from  spiritual  foes,  and  give  them  the  victory  in  the  hour  of 
death ;  and  no  need  of  divine  grace,  to  procure  their  justifica- 
tion at  the  judgment  of  the  great  day,  and  introduce  them  into 
the  abodes  of  endless  rest,  I  may  venture  to  say  of  such,  that 
the  invitation  before  us  is  no  message  from  God  to  them. 
The  Saviour  is  not  now  speaking  to  them.  Indeed  they  have 
no  Saviour.  They  have  no  interest  in  the  redemption  of  the 
Son  of  God  ; — no  place  in  his  heart  of  infinite  mercy.  He 
thought  not  of  them,  when  he  came  down  from  heaven.  He 
felt  not  for  tiiem,  when  he  agonized  in  Gethscmane.  He 
shed  not  one  drop  of  blood  for  them,  when  he  hung  on  Cal- 
vary. And  when  he  rose  from  the  dead,  and  ascended  on 
high,  he  opened  no  bright  pathway,  for  them  to  follow  him, 
from  the  tomb  to  the  skies.  But  beings  so  free  from  the  bur- 
den of  sin,  with  its  present  and  future  miseries,  as  to  need  no 
relief  from  the  divine  Redeemer,  are  not  to  be  found  in  this 
assembly,  nor  in  any  other  that  can  be  gathered  on  the  face 
of  the  earth.     The  invitation  of  the  text   mav  therefore  be 


SERMON  IX.  339 

given  to  all  the  members  of  the  human  family;  during  the 
whole  of  their  mortal  life  ;  and  it  is  at  this  time  given  to  all 
that  hear  it.  On  whatever  shore  the  herald  of  the  cross  may 
land,  to  whatever  tribe  he  may  go  between  the  rising  and  set- 
ting sun,  he  may  proclaim  it  on  every  side  in  the  name  of  Je- 
sus ;  and  it  will  ere  long  be  proclaimed  in  every  valley  and 
on  every  mountain  of  our  world,  as  it  is  this  day  proclaimed 
wherever  the  gospel  is  preached.  The  Son  of  God  will  soon 
lift  up  a  standard  for  the  nations,  and  call  them  to  himself 
from  the  ends  of  the  earth ;  as  he  now  stands  with  open 
arms,  saying  in  accents  of  melting  benevolence,  to  those  with- 
in the  sound  of  his  voice,  "  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  la- 
bour, and  are  heavy  laden  ;  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

In  further  discoursing  upon  these  words,  it  is  my  design, 
to  explain  the  import  of  the  invitation,  and  the  nature  of  the 
promise,  which  they  contain. 

I.  I  am  to  explain  the  import  of  the  invitation,  to  come  to 
Christ. 

This  may  be  done  indirectly,  by  showing  in  a  direct  man- 
ner what  it  is  to  comply  with  it.  And  though  by  viewing 
the  subject  in  this  attitude,  our  attention  may  seem  to  be  turn- 
ed from  Christ  as  speaking,  and  fixed  on  ourselves  as  hearing, 
yet  the  subject  may  be  so  viewed  with  the  most  immediate 
interest,  since  compliance  with  what  we  hear  is  our  greatest 
duty  and  privilege. 

What  then  is  it  to  come  to  Christ  ?  To  answer  this  ques- 
tion, is  to  answer  the  most  important  one,  that  can  be  asked 
in  our  world.  It  is  to  tell  how  depraved  and  ruined  men 
may  obtain  deliverance  from  the  bonds  of  iniquity,  and  the 
chains  of  everlasting  despair.  It  is  to  tell  them  by  what 
means  they  may  find  that  joy  of  reconciliation  to  God,  which 
nothing  in  hfe  or  death  can  destroy ;  and  which  will  be  con- 
summated in  a  happiness,  great  as  the  soul  can  contain,  and 
eternity  can  yield.  It  is  to  tell  them,  what  it  is  to  enter  the 
path,  and  the  only  path,  that  leads  away  from  earth  and  hell 
to  the  world  of  glory. 


340  SERMON    IX. 

The  expression  "  to  come  to  Christ,"  hke  its  equivalent 
"  to  follow  Christ,"  in  its  original  and  literal  use  denoted  the 
external  act  of  forsaking  home  and  secular  employment,  and 
attending  his  person  in  his  ministrations  of  mercy  from  one 
village  to  another.  At  the  commencement  of  his  public  life 
as  a  preacher,  he  required  this  service  of  a  chosen  few,  that 
by  his  constant  instructions,  he  might  fit  them  to  go  forth  as 
his  apostles.  But  this  external  act  was  not  even  then  all  that 
was  meant  by  coming  to  him.  It  was  only  the  visible  part 
by  which  the  whole  was  signified.  It  implied  all  that  has 
ever  since  been  necessary  to  make  men  his  sincere  disciples. 
Whenever  it  existed  alone,  it  was  the  shadow  instead  of  the 
substance.  Though  Christ  declai-ed,  "He  that  cometh  to  me 
I  will  in  no  wise  cast  out,"  the  scribes  and  Pharisees,  and  ma- 
ny others,  who  frequently  resorted  to  him,  and  accompanied 
him,  from  unhallowed  motives,  were  cast  out  as  hypocrites. 
The  phrase  "  coming  to  Christ"  soon  lost  a  part  of  its  literal 
meaning,  being  used  to  express  the  act  of  waiting  on  his 
ministry  as  opportunity  occurred,  and  believing  in  him  as  the 
^lessiah,  Avithout  attending  his  person,  as  he  went  about  do- 
inw  good,  through  the  cities  and  villages  of  Israel.  After  his 
ascension  it  Ixcame  wholly  figurative,  being  used  to  express 
only  the  act  of  becoming  a  sincere  convert  to  his  religion.  It 
is  hardly  necessary  to  add,  that  this  has  since  been,  and  is 
now,  and  ever  will  be,  the  whole  of  its  meaning. 

But  it  is  necessary  to  explain  more  particularly  what  is  im- 
plied in  becoming  a  true  convert  to  Christianity,  or  in  coming 
to  Christ  in  this  sense  of  the  term. 

In  coming  to  Christ  it  is  implied, 

1.  That  we  are  sensible  of  our  natural  distance  from  him. 

No  time  can  now  be  spent  in  proving,  that  by  nature  we 
are  in  a  state  of  distance  from  him — in  a  state  of  spiritual 
darkness  and  death,  under  the  dominion  of  other  lords,  giving 
our  supreme  attention  to  other  objects,  and  loving  them  with 
our  whole  heart, — putting  our  trust  in  other  refuges,  looking 
to  other  sources  of  happiness,  and  devoting  ourselves  to  the 
service  of  other  masters.     The  proof  of  this  fact  exists  on 


SERMON   IX. 


34i 


every  page  of  the  bible,  and  in  the  testimony  of  every  con- 
science. Of  tliis  fact  we  can  have  no  sincere  doubt.  But 
it  is  necessary  tliat  we  do  more  than  beheve  it,  as  we  do 
many  other  facts  in  the  natural  and  moral  world,  with  which 
we  have  little  or  no  concern  as  probationers  for  eternity. 
We  cannot  be  safe  in  a  state  of  insensibility  respecting  it. 
We  cannot  safely  shut  our  eyes  against  it,  and  turn  them  to 
some  more  flattering  sight,  nor  fix  them  upon  it  with  an  idle 
curiosity,  or  with  the  blank  gaze  with  which  we  fix  them  on 
vacancy.  We  must  look  upon  it  with  the  trembling  con- 
cern, with  which  we  should  look  on  a  wound  that  may  never 
be  healed,  or  on  the  darkness  of  a  night  that  may  never  end, 
or  on  the  horrors  of  a  dungeon  that  may  never  be  opened. 
If  it  be  an  undeniable  truth,  that  while  unregenerate  we  are 
far  off  from  Christ,  it  is  a  truth  that  we  must  not  merely  be- 
lieve ;  we  must  understand  its  real  meaning,  and  feel  its  full 
power.  We  must  be  deeply  sensible  that  we  are  not  true  dis- 
ciples of  Christ,  and  heirs  with  him  to  an  incorruptible  inher- 
itance, merely  because  we  behold  the  light  and  breathe  the  air 
of  a  Christian  land,  and  live  in  the  uninterrupted  enjoyment 
of  the  various  means  of  grace, — nor  merely  because  we  profess 
to  be  such,  and  perform  some  of  the  outward  duties  required 
of  such, — nor  merely  because  Christ  has  died  for  us,  and  ren- 
dered it  possible  for  a  righteous  God  to  save  us.  The  strong 
conviction  must  be  fastened  on  our  minds,  that  we  are  natu- 
rally destitute  of  the  pure  and  the  benevolent  spirit  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  averse  to  many  of  its  himibling  doctrines  and  pre- 
cepts, and  uninterested  in  its  exceedingly  great  and  precious 
promises.  The  glorious  views  of  God  which  the  gospel 
gives,  the  holy  aftections  which  it  enkindles,  and  the  sublime 
hopes  which  it  inspires,  are  not  possessed  and  cherished  by 
us,  while  we  are  in  the  state  of  unregenerated  nature.  It  is 
therefore  of  vital  importance,  that  all  our  sensibilities  should 
be  awake  to  the  solemn  truth,  that  we  may  be  excited  to  in- 
quire what  we  shall  do.  We  shall  never  begin  the  work  of 
coming  to  Christ,  till  we  are  trembhngly  sensible  of  our  nat- 
ural distance  from  him.     See  our  distance  we  nmst,  and  feel 


342  SERMON  IX. 

the  guilt  and  danger  of  it,  or  we  shall  never  take  the  first  step 
in  the  way  to  Christ. 

In  coming  to  Christ  it  is  implied, 

2.  That  we  are  sensible  of  our  absolute  need  of  him. 

This  is  the  second  step  to  be  taken.  It  is  sufficiently  dis- 
tinct from  the  first,  to  claim  our  particular  attention.  The 
first  may  be  taken  ;  and  the  second  may  follow,  or  may  not. 
Infidels,  and  scoffers,  and  many  others,  may  be  convinced  of 
their  distance  from  Christ,  and  glory  in  it,  or  think  lightly  of 
it.  They  may  not  feel  the  need  of  coming  to  him.  They 
may  be  fully  persuaded  that  they  are  not  the  real  followers 
of  Christ,  and  yet  be  not  deeply  convinced  of  the  absolute 
necessity  of  becoming  such.  They  may  sometimes  discover 
so  much  of  their  guilt  and  danger,  as  to  acknowledge  the  ex- 
pediency of  doing  it,  and  still  feel  not  the  w^eight  of  obligations 
and  the  impulse  of  motives,  springing  from  the  fact  that 
Christianity  is  not  merely  a  thing  of  convenience,  favourable 
to  human  virtue  and  happiness,  and  more  so  than  any  other 
religion,  but  an  exclusive  system  for  the  recovery  of  fallen 
men,  and  their  deliverance  from  destruction.  If  the  religion 
of  Christ  be  of  divine  origin,  it  is  the  only  one  that  is  so  ;  for 
such  it  claims  to  be  ;  and,  coming  from  the  God  of  truth,  it 
cannot  claim  to  be  what  it  is  not.  It  is  a  rehgion,  not  merely 
convenient  for  men  in  time,  but  necessary  for  them  in  eter- 
nity. If  the  name  of  Christ  deserve  any  regard,  it  must  be 
regarded  as  the  only  one  under  heaven,  by  which  we  can  be 
saved.  If  we  come  to  Christ  at  all,  we  must  come  to  him  as 
the  only  Saviour  of  lost  men.  If  we  come  to  him  for  any 
thing,  we  must  come  for  eternal  life.  We  must  feel,  that, 
while  away  from  him,  we  are  perishing  in  spiritual  darkness 
and  bondage,  and  that  none  but  he  can  bring  us  to  the  light 
and  freedom  of  immortality.  Sensible  of  our  natural  blind- 
ness and  enmity  to  the  revealed  system  of  truth,  respecting 
the  dispensation  of  God  towards  our  world,  we  must  be  equal- 
ly sensible  of  our  need  of  divine  teaching.  To  sit  at  the  feet 
of  Jesus,  and  learn  of  him,  is  a  duty,  that  we  cannot  refuse  to 
perform,  without  remaining  in  fatal  ignorance.     To  look  to 


SERMON    IX. 


343 


him  for  the  mild  graces  and  exalted  hopes  of  his  religion,  to 
make  our  way  through  life  a  way  of  pleasantness  and  peace, 
and  to  sustain  us  in  the  last  sinking  hour,  is  a  privilege  that 
cannot  be  neglected,  without  losing  infinite  good.  The  abso- 
lute necessity  of  his  atoning  blood,  to  provide  for  the  regene- 
ration of  our  natures,  the  pardon  of  our  sins,  and  the  rescue 
of  our  souls  from  merited  perdition,  must  be  deeply  and  per- 
manently felt.  The  fullest  conviction  of  this  truth,  must  lie 
at  the  foundation  of  all  our  views,  respecting  our  state  and 
prospects,  as  subjects  of  the  divine  government.  If  we  over- 
look this  truth  for  a  moment,  the  light  shed  on  the  ways  of 
God  to  men  becomes  darkness.  If  we  attempt  to  reason  on 
our  relations  to  the  divine  Being,  without  bringing  this  truth 
into  the  account,  we  can  only  reason  ourselves  into  despair. 

That  the  Son  of  God,  in  all  the  offices  which  he  sustains  in 
the  work  of  redemption,  is  just  such  a  mediator  as  the  various 
necessities  of  men  require,  must  not  merely  be  adopted  as  an 
article  of  our  creed.  There  must  be  a  deep  sense  of  its  prac- 
tical bearing  on  us  as  individuals,  or  we  shall  never  receive 
him  as  our  prophet  to  pour  divine  light  on  our  minds,  and  our 
priest  to  offer  sacrifice  and  intercession  for  us,  and  our  king 
to  estabhsh  within  our  hearts  and  over  our  lives  a  reign  of 
righteousness  and  peace.  Who  will  come  to  Christ,  till  he 
feels  himself  in  the  utmost  need  of  such  a  Saviour,  as  Christ 
is  revealed  to  be  ?  Who  will  come  to  Christ  for  salvation,  till 
he  is  convinced  that  he  is  otherwise  a  ruined  immortal  ?  Who 
will  grasp  at  the  proffered  hand  of  Christ,  and  cry,  "  Lord,  save 
me,"  till  he  feels  himself  ready  to  perish  1  If  there  remain  in 
our  breasts  a  secret  hope,  that  all  will  be  well  with  us  at  last> 
though  Ave  never  fly  to  Christ,  that  hope,  however  faint  it  may 
be,  will  be  enough  to  keep  us  from  him  forever.  Away,  then, 
with  every  such  hope  !  Perish  we  must  without  a  personal  in- 
terest in  the  salvation  of  Christ.  If  the  ills  of  a  few  fleeting 
days  on  earth  can  be  borne,  can  we  be  delivered  from  the  woes 
of  an  undone  eternity  ?  What  shall  we  do  without  an  Almighty 
Redeemer,  when  our  spirits  are  separated  from  our  bodies 
})y  a  power  over  which  we  have  no  control,  are  cast  into  the 


344 


SERMON    IX. 


hands  of  our  righteous  Judge,  and  are  borne  into  that  unseen 
world,  in  which  we  can  have  no  agency  in  determining,  where 
shall  be  the  place  of  our  abode,  and  what  shall  be  our  em- 
ployment ?  Shall  we  not  stand  in  the  utmost  need  of  Christ 
to  take  our  spirits  to  heaven  at  death,  to  raise  our  bodies  in 
glory  on  the  morning  of  eternity,  to  appear  as  our  Advocate 
at  the  last  tribunal,  and  finally  to  present  us  spotless  and 
blameless  before  the  throne  of  his  Father,  and  cause  us  to 
shine  forth  as  the  sun  in  his  everlasting  kingdom  ?  If  so  ab- 
solute will  be  our  need  of  Christ  hereafter,  can  we  now  be 
insensible  to  it,  and  not  be  in  imminent  danger  of  losing  all 
the  happiness  of  an  indissoluble  union  to  him,  and  bringing 
upon  ourselves  all  the  misery  of  eternal  banishment  from  him  ? 

In  coming  to  Christ  it  is  implied, 

3.  That  we  mourn  over  our  natural  distance  from  him. 

We  shall  come  to  the  Redeemer  without  any  errand,  un- 
less we  feel  that  we  have  sins  to  be  forgiven,  and  washed 
away  ;  and  we  shall  come  equally  in  vain,  if  we  indulge  a 
disposition  to  retain,  extenuate,  or  cover  them,  instead  of  free- 
ly confessing  them,  and  lamenting  them  bitterly,  and  entirely 
forsaking  them.  But  all  our  sins  are  included  in  the  fact  of 
our  distance  from  Christ.  We  are  just  as  far  from  perfect 
holiness  as  we  are  from  him.  To  mourn  over  the  want  of 
holiness,  is  to  mourn  over  the  want  of  nearness  to  him.  It  is 
to  mourn  over  our  natural  hatred  of  the  light  of  his  glorious 
gospel,  and  disobedience  to  its  requirements,  and  destitution 
of  his  own  moral  likeness.  "  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for 
they  shall  be  comforted."  We  shall  never  come  to  Christ  in 
sincerity,  unless  our  spirits  are  subdued  with  grief  in  view  of 
our  wandering  from  him.  Would  the  return  of  the  prodigal 
son  have  been  any  thing  but  hypocrisy  or  selfishness,  unless 
his  soul  had  been  filled  with  penitential  sorrow,  for  his  wick- 
ed departure  from  his  father  '^  What  have  we  to  do  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross,  or  before  the  mercy-seat,  but  to  prostrate 
ourselves  in  the  dust,  and  bring  down  all  our  lofty  imagina- 
tions, and  pour  out  the  sorrows  of  a  broken  heart  1  How  can 
we  become  the  followers  of  the  meek  and  lowly  Redeemer, 


SERMON    IX.  345 

without  being  humbled  and  melted  in  penitence,  that  we  have 
not  always  been  such  ?  How  can  we  become  his  friends, 
without  sincere  and  lasting  contrition  for  having  been  his  en- 
emies ?  How  can  we  fix  on  him  a  look  of  delight  or  hope, 
with  eyes  that  never  shed  one  tear  of  heart-felt  grief  for  our 
countless  offences  against  him  ? 

In  coming  to  Christ  it  is  implied, 

4.  That  we  put  our  whole  trust  in  him. 

We  must  have  a  full  and  active  belief  in  the  truth  of  his 
declarations,  respecting  things  that  have  been,  and  things  that 
shall  be,  which  are  now  beyond  the  reach  of  our  senses.  We 
must  have  entire  confidence  in  the  suflSciency  of  that  sacri- 
fice which  he  has  once  offered,  and  that  intercession  which  he 
makes  continually,  for  the  pardon  of  transgressors.  And  we 
must  have  the  same  confidence  in  the  power  of  the  Spirit, 
sent  down  by  him,  to  give  light  to  the  blind,  and  life  to  the 
dead.  The  firm  persuasion,  that  no  one  who  comes  to  him 
shall  be  cast  out,  must  have  an  abiding  place  in  our  minds. 
Doubt  of  his  ability  and  willingness  to  save  to  the  uttermost 
must  be  banished.  We  must  also  depend  entirely  on  him  for 
all  that  is  necessary,  to  secure  our  personal  interest  in  the 
blessings  of  his  full  and  free  salvation.  What  will  it  profit 
us,  to  receive  him  as  a  Saviour  but  in  part,  by  seeking  for  on- 
ly a  part  of  the  blessings  of  his  salvation,  or  by  depending  on 
him  in  seeking  them  all,  no  farther  than  to  make  up  some  de- 
ficiency in  our  own  exertions.  What  will  it  avail  us  to  look 
to  him  for  deliverance  from  the  woes  of  the  bottomless  pit 
when  we  die,  unless  we  look  to  him  for  deliverance  from  the 
bonds  of  iniquity  while  we  live  ?  Of  what  avail  can  it  be,  to 
trust  in  him,  to  take  us  to  heaven  hereafter,  unless  we  trust  in 
him  to  fit  us  for  heaven  now  ?  Or  what  good  can  result  from 
attempting,  independently  of  him,  to  work  out  a  righteous- 
ness upon  natural  principles,  in  order  to  recommend  us  to  his 
favour,  and  dispose  him  to  complete  what  we  have  begun  ? 
Can  we  enter  the  path  of  life,  and  walk  onward  a  while,  be- 
fore we  submit  to  his  guidance  ?    Can  we  rise  half  way  to 

heaven  ;  and  then  cast  ourselves  into  his  hands,  to  be  borne 

44 


346 


SERMON  IX. 


through  the  other  half  ?  No,  brethren  ;  our  trust  in  the  Son 
of  God  must  be  entire,  or  it  is  vain.  He  will  be  all  in  all  to 
us,  or  nothing.  The  attention  of  the  redeemed  on  high,  must 
never  be  divided,  between  the  glory  due  to  him,  and  that 
due  to  themselves.  Their  song  must  be  one  forever.  Our 
present  trust  in  the  Redeemer  must  therefore  be  single  and 
entire.  We  are  not  at  liberty  even  to  ask,  or  to  cherish  an 
inclination  to  ask,  whether  there  may  not  be  some  ground  of 
hope,  besides  that  of  simple  reliance  on  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

In  coming  to  Christ  it  is  implied, 

5.  That  we  give  him  our  whole  heart. 

This  is  what  he  claims  of  us  ;  and  this  claim,  high  as  it  is, 
cannot  be  proved  unreasonable,  while  we  retain  the  faculties 
of  moral  agents,  and  he  continues  unchangeable  in  the  per- 
fections of  his  character,  and  the  principles  of  his  govern- 
ment. He  has  revealed  himself  as  a  Being  worthy  of  all  that 
devotedness  of  heart  which  he  claims.  Obligations  and  mo- 
tives of  infinite  weight  press  upon  us,  to  call  forth  all  that 
love  of  gratitude,  and  all  that  love  of  moral  delight,  which  he 
requires.  He  does  not  require  that  we  love  no  other  being 
at  all.  But  he  requires  that  our  direct  love  to  him  be  su- 
preme ,  and  that  our  love  to  other  beings  be  in  direct  love  to 
him,  by  being  exercised  in  conformity  to  his  will,  and  with  an 
ultimate  regard  to  his  glory,  and  this  is  loving  him  with  all  the 
heart.  Less  than  this  he  cannot  require,  and  be  just  to  him- 
self, and  to  the  universe  for  which  he  acts.  Less  than  this  as 
a  living  principle  we  cannot  possess,  and  yet  be  his  follow- 
ers. He  must  be  to  us  the  chief  among  ten  thousands,  and 
the  one  altogether  lovely.  A  sweet  sense  of  delight  in  him 
must  pervade  our  souls.  We  must  take  delight  in  contem- 
plating the  perfections  of  his  character  and  the  wonders  of  his 
redemption, — in  holding  communion  with  him,  and  imitating 
his  example  of  purity  and  benevolence.  We  must  delight  in 
his  truth,  in  his  worship,  in  the  various  institutions  of  his  re-  ' 
ligion,  in  his  people,  in  the  spread  of  his  gospel,  and  the  in- 
crease of  his  kingdom  and  visible  glory.  Thus  will  it  be 
manifested  that  our  hearts  are  fixed  on  him,  and  our  lives  hid 


SERMON  IX. 


347 


with  him  in  God,  and  our  souls  united  to  him  so  firmly,  that 
we  shall  grow  into  his  likeness,  and  appear  with  him  in  glory 
at  his  final  coming.  What  shall  break  the  cords  of  love  that 
have  once  bound  us  to  Christ  ?  Nothing  here,  or  hereafter. 

In  coming  to  Christ  it  is  implied, 

6.  That  we  devote  our  all  to  his  service. 

We  are  his  property  by  creation  ;  and  all  our  temporal 
blessings  are  the  gifts  of  his  goodness.  But  we  are  his  by  a 
higher  claim,  founded  on  the  work  of  redemption.  If  we 
would  enjoy  the  eternal  blessings  of  his  redemption,  we  must 
acknowledge  this  claim,  by  making  a  voluntary  consecration 
of  ourselves  and  our  possessions  to  his  reasonable  service. 
We  must  acknowledge  that  we  are  not  our  own,  but  are 
bought  by  the  Son  of  God  with  the  price  of  his  heart's  blood, 
and  are  therefore  under  infinite  obligation  to  present  to  him 
our  body  and  spirit  as  a  living  sacrifice,  and  devote  to  him 
our  time,  and  talents,  and  substance.  To  do  this,  it  is  not 
necessary,  that  every  moment  of  life,  and  every  faculty  of 
body  and  mind,  and  every  article  of  property,  should  be  em- 
ployed in  doing  direct  acts  of  service  to  him  in  his  church  ; 
but  it  is  necessary,  that  all  should  be  used  in  that  obedience 
to  his  various  commands,  by  which  he  is  glorified.  Christ  is 
served  when  he  is  obeyed.  If  all  that  we  do,  be  done  in 
conformity  to  his  will,  it  is  enough.  It  must  be  remembered, 
however,  that  it  is  a  part  of  his  will,  that  we  should  make 
constant  sacrifices  and  exertions,  for  the  direct  purpose  of 
building  up  his  kingdom  in  the  world.  Be  his  followers  then 
we  cannot,  without  a  heart  to  do  this.  The  fruits  of  repent- 
ance, and  faith,  and  love,  must  appear  in  the  various  good 
works  of  devotion  and  benevolence,  or  we  are  far  from  him, 
and  are  going  farther  continually,  and  thus  diminishing  the 
probability  that  we  shall  ever  come  to  him,  and  prepare  to 
spend  our  eternity  in  his  presence. 

What  I  have  to  say,  respecting  the  import  of  the  invitation 
in  the  text,  is  now  finished. 

II.  I  am  to  explain  the  nature  of  the  rest  that  is  here  prom- 
ised. 


348  SERMON    IX. 

Only  a  few  prominent  things  in  this  rest  can  now  be  brought 
into  view.  It  begins  with  dehverance  from  the  burden  of 
guilt  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  when  the  heart  is  first  melted 
into  penitence,  and  the  tumult  of  doubts  and  fears  is  hushed 
into  the  calm  of  faith,  and  the  gentle  reign  of  love  is  set  up 
in  the  breast,  and  the  peace  of  reconcihation  to  God  is  shed 
abroad  in  the  soul.  At  the  foot  of  the  cross,  the  Christian 
enters  the  way  of  humble  and  holy  obedience  to  the  gospel 
and  runs  on  and  is  not  weary,  and  walks  on  and  is  not  faint, 
carrying  with  him  a  peace  of  mind,  which  the  world  could 
not  give  when  he  dwelt  in  it,  and  cannot  now  take  away 
while  he  is  passing  through  it.  And  he  finishes  his  course  with 
the  composure  of  perfect  resignation,  or  in  high  triumph  amid 
visions  of  glory. 

In  this  life  the  follower  of  Christ  enjoys  many  foretastes  of 
the  rest  of  heaven.  His  mind  is  settled  down  into  a  state  of 
entire  confidence  in  the  perfections  and  ways  of  the  Most 
High,  in  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  his  universal  providence, 
and  in  his  power  and  will  to  devise  and  execute  apian  of  gov- 
ernment, that  shall  result  in  the  greatest  possible  good.  He 
finds  rest  in  communion  with  God,  in  the  exercise  of  holy  and 
benevolent  aflections,  in  freedom  from  the  tormenting  tyran- 
ny of  evil  passions,  from  the  stings  of  an  accusing  conscience, 
and  from  the  prevailing  fear  of  death  and  hell.  It  is  true  that 
he  has  labours  to  perform,  and  trials  to  endure,  and  conflicts 
to  fight ;  but  none  of  these  so  move  him,  as  to  destroy  the 
deep-felt  peace  derived  from  the  gracious  presence  of  his  God 
and  Saviour,  and  the  hope  of  a  blessed  immortality  in  his 
kingdom. 

In  the  pilgrimage  of  life,  Christ  is  to  his  followers  like  the 
shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land.  In  him  they  find  a 
source  of  happiness  that  will  not  change  with  every  change 
of  external  circumstances — one  that  will  not  fail  in  every  try- 
ing hour — one  that  they  can  carry  with  them  into  the  hut  of 
poverty. 

What  on  earth  can  conijiare  with  the  peace  of  the  Chris- 
tian, when  with  the  world  receding  from  his  view  and  heaven 


SERMON  IX, 


340 


opening  before  him,  he  breathes  out  his  spirit  in  aspirations  of 
confiding  love  into  the  arms  of  his  almighty  Redeemer,  and 
in  the  full  uninterrupted  light  of  his  countenance.  Like  the 
peace  of  all  nature  after  a  storm, — when  the  winds  are  hush- 
ed, and  the  woods  and  waves  are  still,  and  the  clouds  are  gone, 
and  the  sun  shines  down  from  a  serene  sky  upon  a  serene 
world, — such  is  the  rest  of  the  Christian  after  this  tumultuous 
life  is  over.  When  a  shipwrecked  mariner  is  rescued  from 
a  watery  grave  by  some  kind  friend,  how  sweet  is  the  rest 
that  he  enjoys  as  he  leans  on  his  deUverer,  and  looks  from  the 
shore  over  the  wide  waste  of  waters,  and  feels  firm  ground 
under  him,  while  he  hears  the  billows  roar,  and  sees  them 
dash  at  his  feet  in  vain, — such  is  the  rest  that  the  believer 
enjoys  as  he  leans  on  his  almighty  Saviour,  and  from  the 
verge  of  eternity  looks  back  over  this  tempestuous  world. 
But  the  chief  rest  of  the  Christian  is  in  the  midst  of  the  para- 
dise that  is  above.  There  it  is  consummated — perfect  in  na- 
ture, everlasting  in  duration. 

The  rest  of  heaven  is  not  like  that  which  we  take  in  sleep. 
It  is  not  a  calm  of  the  soul,  in  which  it  ceases  to  reason  and 
feel  and  act.  It  is  not  a  contemplative  repose  of  mind  from 
which  nothing  ever  awakens.  The  ransomed  hosts  in  glory 
do  not  dream  away  the  ages  of  eternity.  The  faculties  of  the 
understanding  will  doubtless  be  in  constant  and  vigorous  ex- 
ercise. The  mind  will  make  uninterrupted  advances  in 
knowledge.  The  affections  of  the  heart  will  be  in  lively  ex- 
ercise. Love  supreme  to  God,  and  disinterested  love  to 
saints  and  angels,  will  beam  in  every  breast.  The  tongue 
will  find  employment  in  recounting  the  histories  of  redeem- 
ing mercy,  in  conversuig  on  the  perfections,  the  works,  and 
ways  of  the  Most  High,  and  in  singing  the  song  of  Moses 
and  the  I^amb.  Perhaps  the  hands  may  have  their  offices  of 
love  to  perform.  Perhaps  the  wings  may  bear  the  happy 
spirit  on  errands  of  benevolence  to  other  worlds.  The  rest 
of  heaven  then  will  not  be  a  state  of  cessation  from  the  active 
service  of  God.  But  it  will  be  a  state  of  peaceful  freedom 
from  sin — from  the  disturbing  and  tormenting  power  of  evil 


350  SERMON   IX. 

passions.  No  unholy  emotion  will  ever  rise,  to  stain  the 
heart,  and  break  the  tranquilhty  of  the  breast.  No  vain  thought 
will  ever  pass  through  the  mind.  No  idle  word  will  ever  es- 
cape from  the  tongue. 

The  rest  of  heaven  will  be  a  state  of  quiet  deliverance  from 
the  tortures  of  an  accusing  conscience. 

It  will  be  a  rest  from  the  assaults  of  spiritual  enemies — a 
rest  from  temptations, — from  those  of  an  evil  heart,  those  of 
an  evil  world,  those  of  wicked  men,  and  those  of  the  great  ad- 
versary of  the  soul.  All  these  will  be  far  away;  and  the  lib- 
erated spirit  will  dwell  in  peace  and  safety  before  the  throne 
of  its  almighty  Deliverer. 

It  will  be  a  rest  from  the  wearisome  toil  of  earth,  appoint- 
ed as  a  part  of  the  original  curse  for  man's  apostacy  from 
God. 

It  will  be  a  rest  from  the  conflict  of  faith  with  the  things 
that  are  seen  and  temporal.  Her  conflict  is  over,  and  her 
victory  complete  ; — her  trials  are  at  an  end. 

It  will  be  a  rest  from  all  that  "  fear  which  hath  torment"-the 
dread  of  forfeiting  the  favour  of  God,  and  bringing  destruction 
upon  the  soul.  The  redeemed  in  heaven  will  be  confirmed 
in  a  state  of  holiness  that  shall  not  end.  And  of  this  they  will 
be  assured  by  God  himself;  so  that  they  will  not  be  left  to  one 
moment's  trembling  lest  at  some  period  of  their  existence,  in 
some  unguarded  hour,  they  should  indulge  a  feeling  of  enmi- 
ty to  the  divine  character,  or  utter  a  word  of  rebellious  dis- 
content, and  hurl  themselves  down,  as  did  the  fallen  angels, 
from  the  abodes  of  glory  to  the  bottomless  pit. 

It  will  be  a  state  of  rest  from  all  the  doubt  and  anxiety 
arising  from  the  mysterious  dispensations  of  the  divine  gov- 
ernment. Clouds  and  darkness  will  never  more  surround 
the  throne  of  the  Most  High.  Those  clouds  are  scattered 
forever ;  and  that  throne  rises  to  view  in  the  fulness  of  its 
glory.  The  light  of  e.ternity  will  pour  full  day  on  all  his  works 
and  ways. 

And,  finally,  the  rest  of  heaven  will  be  a  state  of  perfect 
freedom  from  sorrow  and  every  cause  of  sorrow.    In  that 


SERMON  IX. 


351 


blessed  world  the  Lamb  of  God  shall  lead  his  followers  to 
living  fountains  of  waters ;  and  God  himself  with  his  own 
right  hand  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes.  "  There 
the  wicked  shall  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  shall 
be  at  rest.  O  that  I  had  wings  like  a  dove  ;  then  would  I  fly 
away,  and  be  at  rest." 

In  the  conclusion  of  this  discourse,  permit  me  to  remind 
you  of  the  tender  love  and  endearing  mercy  of  the  Son  of 
God,  in  giving  to  sinners  like  us,  such  an  invitation  as  that 
of  the  text.  He  condescends  to  reason  and  plead  with  us  in 
the  character  of  a  friend.  The  High  and  Lofty  One,  who 
telleth  the  number  of  stars,  and  calleth  them  all  by  their 
names,  entreats  the  broken  in  heart  to  suffer  him  to  heal 
them,  and  bind  up  all  their  wounds.  O  if  this  were  not  so 
common  a  sentiment,  it  would  be  one  of  overwhelming  in- 
terest. It  is  true  that  in  other  parts  of  his  Oracles  the  Di- 
vine Being  puts  on  the  authority  of  a  lawgiver  and  the  ma- 
jesty of  a  moral  governor,  and  commands  our  obedience  as 
his  right.  But  here  he  puts  on  all  the  tenderness  of  a  father, 
and  beseeches  us  to  accept  of  eternal  life  at  his  hand.  He 
would  win  us  by  entreaties.  He  would  save  himself  from  the 
necessity  of  executing  upon  us  the  penalty  of  his  violated 
law.  He  would  lead  us  into  the  path  of  life  by  the  hand  of 
love.  He  would  take  us  to  heaven  in  the  arms  of  everlasting 
mercy. 

The  invitation  in  the  text  is  not  a  solitary  one  from  the  lips 

of  the  Redeemer.     In  the  prophecy  of  Isaiah  he  cries  "  Ho, 

every  one  that  thirsteth,  come  ye  to  the  waters,  and  he  that 
hath  no  money  ;  come  ye,  buy,  and  eat  ;  yea,   come,  buy 

wine  and  milk  without  money  andwithout  price."     Again 

he  cries,  "  Look  unto  me,  and  be  ye  saved,  all  the  ends  of 

the  earth."     And  again  he   calls  in  the  words  of  the  text, 

"  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor,  and  are  heavy  laden  ; 

and  I  will  give  you  rest."     And,   finally  in  the  last   chapter 

of  his  gospel,  after  having   opened  to   our  eyes  the   holy 

and  the  glorious  city  above,  with  its  gates  of  pearl  and  streets 


352 


SERMON  IX. 


of  gold,  and  all  its  bright  and  blessed  inhabitants, — and  after 
showing  us  the  pure  river  of  water  of  life,  clear  as  crystal, 
proceeding  out  of  the  throne  of  God  and  the  Lamb,  he  cries, 
standing  as  it  were  under  the  open  heavens,  he  cries  aloud, 
"  I  Jesus  have  sent  mine  angel  to  testify  unto  you  these  things 
m  the  churches.  I  am  the  root  and  the  offspring  of  David, 
and  the  bright  and  morning  star.  And  the  Spirit  and  the 
bride  say,  Come.  And  let  him  that  heareth  say.  Come.  And  let 
him  that  is  athirst  come.  And  whosoever  will,  let  him  take  the 
water  of  life  freely."  And  with  this  call  of  mercy  his  gospel 
is  closed.  This  is  the  last  sound  from  his  lips — the  same  that 
is  left  ringing  in  our  ears,  as  the  heavens  receive  him  and 
close  behind  him.  But  from  the  throne  of  intercession  he 
sends  down  the  same  merciful  call  by  the  Holy  Spirit  and  it 
is  continually  echoed  in  our  ears.  "  Blessed  is  the  people 
that  know  the  joyful  sound  ;  they  shall  walk,  O  Lord,  in  the 
light  of  thy  countenance." 


SERMON  X. 


II.  CORINTHIANS,  v.  8. 


"  We  are  confident,  I  say,  and  willing  rather  to  be  absent  from  the  body,  and  to 
be  present  with  the  Lord." 

We  know  not  that  death  reigns  over  any  other  race  of  in- 
telligent beings,  but  that  to  which  we  belong.  It  has  not  been 
revealed  to  us,  whether  there  be  any  other  planet,  in  which 
creatures  like  ourselves  come  into  existence  in  successive 
generations,  and,  after  living  a  few  days  or  years,  undergo  a 
separation  of  body  and  spirit,  in  which  the  former  is  left  to 
moulder  into  dust,  and  the  latter  is  borne  away  to  a  distant 
world  in  a  state  of  conscious  life.  But  certain  it  is,  that  if 
such  a  revelation  were  made  to  us,  it  would  awaken  in  our 
minds  a  train  of  solemn  and  sublime  thoughts,  if  it  did  not  ex- 
cite deep  and  lasting  emotions  in  our  hearts.  Why  then  do 
we  think  and  feel  so  little  respecting  that  great  and  eventful 
revolution  of  being,  which  is  constantly  carried  on  through- 
out the  earth,  and  before  our  eyes,  while  we  ourselves  are 
hastening  towards  it,  and  may  at  any  moment  be  called  to 
pass  through  it  ?  What  is  this  mighty  change  in  the  mode  and 
the  circumstances  of  our  existence  ?  What  is  it  for  men  to 
die  ?  And  what  will  come  to  them  after  death  ?  What  shall 
I  be,  when  my  pulse  beats  no  more,  and  my  last  breath  is 
drawn  ?  Whither  will  my  spirit  fly,  when  it  leaves  this  mor- 
tal frame,  and  bids  farewell  to  these  sublunary  scenes  ?  On 
what  faces  shall  I  open  my  eyes,  when  I  have  closed  them 
on  those  of  the  friends  that  may  stand  around  my  death  bed  ? 
Has  the  world  to  which  I  shall  go  any  connexion  with  this  ? 

Is  it  a  world  of  retribution  ?  Is  that  retribution  for  eternity  ? 

45 


354 


SERMON  X. 


Will  it  make  any  difference  in  a  man's  eternal  condition, 
whether  he  dies  an  infidel  or  a  christian,  a  profligate  or  a 
saint,  a  proud  transgressoror  a  humble  penitent  ?  If  it  were 
only  probable  that  there  is  a  moral  state  of  the  soul,  in  which 
it  is  more  desirable  to  leave  the  world  than  in  another,  it 
could  not  be  unimportant  to  know  what  that  state  is.  If  it 
were  certain  that  there  is  a  character,  which  will  secure  to 
men  in  eternity  a  greater  degree  of  happiness  than  any  other, 
it  must  be  the  part  of  wisdom  to  possess  that  character.  If 
then  it  be  made  sure  by  the  God  of  truth,  that  there  is  in  re- 
ahty  but  one  character,  with  which  it  is  safe  to  die — but  one 
character  which  will  lead  to  a  state  of  perfect  felicity,  while 
every  other  leads  to  a  state  of  hopeless  misery,  it  must  be  the 
very  madness  of  folly,  to  suffer  hfe  to  pass  away,  without  any 
efforts  to  obtain  that  character.  Now  it  is  abundantly  evi- 
dent, that  the  character,  formed  under  the  influence  of  the 
high  and  holy  principles  of  Christianity,  is  the  only  one  that 
will  fit  us  for  a  glorious  immortality.  It  becomes  therefore  of 
the  utmost  importance,  to  ascertain  what  are,  and  what  are 
not,  decisive  proofs  of  the  existence  of  such  a  character.  We 
can  have  no  difficulty  in  ascertaining  some  things  that  are, 
and  many  things  that  are  not ;  unless  indeed  we  deny  the 
need  of  any  preparation  for  death,  and  believe  that  all  men 
will  be  treated  alike  hereafter,  whatever  difference  there  may 
be  in  their  present  character.  But  there  are  other  things,  of 
which  it  may  not  always  be  so  clear,  whether  they  are  or  are 
not  evidences  of  that  moral  state  of  the  soul,  required  by  the 
gospel  as  a  preparation  for  its  departure  from  the  body. 
Some  things  are  evidences  of  such  a  state,  or  are  not,  accord- 
ing to  the  different  circumstances,  with  which  they  are  con- 
nected. Thus  in  the  text  before  us,  the  willingness  to  die, 
expressed  by  the  apostle,  furnishes  unquestionable  proof  of 
his  preparation  for  death,  when  it  is  taken  in  connexion  with 
his  desire  to  be  with  Christ ;  but  when  it  exists  in  cases,  where 
there  is  no  similar  desire,  it  can  furnish  no  such  proof.  And 
yet  there  is  perhaps  no  one  thing  more  commonly  spoken  of 
as  a  proof  of  preparation  for  death,  than  mere  willingness  to 


SERMON    X. 


355 


die,  without  any  reference  to  the  motive  exciting  it,  and  the 
spirit  accompanying  it.  When  we  hear  it  asked  respecting 
the  d}ing  man  "  Does  he  appear  prepared  for  his  departure  V 
how  often  do  we  hear  it  answered,  "  O  yes,  he  appears  per- 
fectly willing  to  go."  No  reason  is  given  for  this  wiUingness. 
A  dreadful  blank  of  uncertainty  is  left  to  be  filled  up  at  the 
last  day.  The  holy  apostle  would  not  have  stopt  here.  He 
would  have  inquired  why  the  man  was  willing  to  die,  before 
he  judged  him  prepared  for  death.  Is  the  expiring  mortal 
"  willing  to  be  absent  from  the  body,  that  he  may  be  present 
with  the  Lord" — "  that  he  may  see  him  as  he  is" — "  that  he 
behold  his  glory  ?"  Is  he  filled  with  a  holy  desire  to  go  into 
the  unveiled  presence  of  the  God  of  infinite  hoUness  ?  Does 
he  long  to  mingle  in  the  society  of  saints  and  angels,  and  en- 
gage in  their  divine  employments,  before  the  throne  of  God 
and  the  Lamb  ?  Or  has  he  no  such  desire  ?  Is  such  a  pros- 
pect far  from  his  thoughts  ?  Or  does  he  think  of  it  with  indif- 
ference or  disgust  ?  Who  then  will  say  that  he  has  any  moral 
fitness  for  heaven  ?  And  without  such  fitness,  is  he  not  un- 
prepared for  death  ? 

With  these  remarks  in  view,  I  proceed  to  announce  the  fol- 
lowing general   sentiment   for    our    serious   consideration. 

Mere  willingness  to  die  is  no  evidence  of  preparation  for 
death. 

To  establish  the  truth  of  this  sentiment,  is  the  principal  ob- 
ject of  the  present  discourse.  To  accomplish  this  object,  it 
will  only  be  necessary  to  show,  that  willingness  to  die  may 
spring  from  various  other  causes,  besides  that  expressed  in 
the  text,  and  those  which  evince  the  same  holiness  of  heart. 

The  principal  ground  of  the  opinion,  that  mere  wiUingness 
to  die  affords  evidence  of  preparation  for  death,  is  probably 
to  be  sought  in  the  habit  of  viewing  the  act  of  dissolution,  as 
too  full  of  terrors  to  nature,  to  be  approached  without  a  re- 
luctance too  great  to  be  overcome  by  any  natural  or  any  in- 
cidental causes.  That  there  is  some  such  cause  for  this  wil- 
hngness,  in  a  multitude  of  cases,  must  appear  manifest  to  the 
faithful  inquirer  after  truth. 


356 


SERMON    X, 


1.  Willingness  to  die  may  spring  from  the  influence  of  dis- 
ease. Men  are  so  much  affected  by  present  sensations,  that 
even  a  small  degree  of  pain,  continued  for  a  long  time,  will 
often  make  them  willing  to  undergo  almost  any  change,  to  be 
delivered  from  it.  How  willing  then  may  they  be  to  risk  a 
leap  into  an  untried  eternity,  in  order  to  escape  from  the  rage 
of  a  fever  that  is  burning  in  the  veins  and  drinking  up  the  spir- 
its, or  from  the  power  of  any  other  acute  disease,  that  is  send- 
ing its  darts  of  agony  through  the  frame,  and  torturing  it  like 
a  "strong  man  armed"  crushing  an  infant  victim  in  his  iron 
grasp.  The  violence  of  pain,  that  is  present,  and  is  felt  in 
eveiy  nerve,  may  make  the  sufferer  unmindful  of  misery,  that 
is  yet  untried,  and  is  in  a  distant  world.  The  intenseness  of 
this  present  and  this  deep  felt  anguish,  may  concentrate  all 
his  thoughts  upon  the  passing  moment,  and  shut  out  of  sight  a 
coming  eternity.  And  what  wonder,  if  in  such  a  state,  he  be 
willing  to  die  ;  when  all  that  he  thinks  of,  is  deliverance  from 
the  intolerable  pain,  that  he  is  now  enduring  ? 

At  other  times  there  may  be  in  disease  such  a  stupifying 
power,  that  the  mind  is  almost  inactive,  the  conscience  is 
asleep,  the  affections  are  chilled,  the  heart-strings  cease  to  vi- 
brate at  the  touch,  and  both  hopes  and  fears  are  laid  to  rest. 
In  this  listless  condition  the  poor  mortal  is  willing  to  die,  be- 
cause he  knows  but  little  of  his  present  state  or  of  his  future 
prospects,  and  cares  nothing  for  either.  He  is  willing  to  die, 
because  he  has  not  thought  and  feeling  enough  in  exercise,  to 
form  the  wish  to  live. 

There  are  still  other  cases,  in  which  there  is  neither  in- 
tense pain  nor  deep  lethargy,  but  a  weak  and  disordered 
state  of  the  mental  faculties,  in  which  things  no  longer  appear 
in  their  true  light  and  proper  connexion,  but  truth  and  error, 
religious  feeling  and  natural,  appear  in  one  confused  and 
ever  changing  view.  Visions  of  light  and  of  darkness,  of  joy 
and  of  terror,  pass  to  and  fro  before  the  eye  of  a  bewildered 
fancy.  The  whole  mind  is  occupied  with*  the  shadows  of 
things  rather  than  the  realities.  In  such  a  state  of  the  soul, 
there  may  be  no  difficulty  in  being  resigned  to  death.     The 


SERMON    X.  357 

man  has  no  distinct  conception  of  what  it  is  to  die.  Perhaps 
he  dreams  of  lying  down  in  the  grave  in  sweet  repose,  or  of 
flying  away  into  a  land  of  everlasting  sunshine  and  flowers 
and  songs.  Life  and  death,  body  and  spirit,  time  and  eter- 
nity, are  all  viewed  through  a  deceitful  mist.  Or  if  the  im- 
pressions of  a  correct  education  on  these  subjects  be  so  deep, 
as  to  preserve  him  from  wandering  over  them  at  random,  and 
enable  him  to  converse  upon  them  with  some  propriety  of 
thought  and  feeling,  yet  if  he  is  restored  to  health,  how  often 
is  all  this  religion  forgotten  or  remembered  only  as  "  a  dream 
when  one  awaketh."  How  many  upon  a  sick  bed  have 
talked,  in  elevated  strains,  of  the  high  things  of  God  and  hea- 
ven, and  expressed  an  entire  willingness  to  leave  the  world, 
and  yet  after  an  unexpected  recovery,  have  been  able  to  re- 
collect nothing  respecting  any  such  conversation,  or  any 
thoughts  and  feelings  corresponding  to  it,  and  have  been 
much  surprised  at  the  account  of  it  given  them  by  others. 
No  trace  of  its  effect  remains  in  their  hearts  or  their  conduct. 
All  is  gone  ;  and  they  continue  to  be  just  what  they  were  be- 
fore their  sickness. 

2.  Willingness  to  die  may  spring  from  philosophical  pride. 

There  are  not  wanting  men,  who  can  approach  the  final 
hour,  with  a  hardihood  of  nerves  braced  to  meet  the  shock, 
and  with  a  firmness  of  soul  gathered  from  the  arguments  of 
unsanctified  reason.  Why  should  they  not  be  resigned  to 
death,  when  it  is  the  universal  lot  of  man,  when  they  always 
expected  to  encounter  it  in  their  turn,  and  when  perhaps  they 
have  lived  to  the  common  age  of  man,  or  at  least  longer  than 
one  half  of  the  human  family  ?  With  these  and  similar  argu- 
ments of  a  worldly  philosophy,  they  fortify  what  is  weak  in 
their  souls,  and  calm  what  is  troubled  into  a  kind  of  submis-. 
sion  to  their  fate.  They  wish  to  appear  above  the  weakness 
of  repining  at  what  cannot  be  avoided.  They  would  not  be 
thought  so  irrational,  as  to  make  a  fretful  or  sullen  resistance 
against  the  king  of  terrors.  Such  resistance  can  be  of  no 
avail — can  do  them  no  good.  It  will  only  expose  them  to 
pity,  when  they  would  rather  attract  admiration.     Resist 


358 


SERMON    X. 


they  may  for  a  while  ;  but  they  must  yield  at  last.  Why 
then  should  they  not  do  it  quietly  and  nobly  ?  Thus  reasoned 
some  of  the  ancient  philosophers,  till  they  could  meet  death 
without  a  sigh,  or  with  the  proud  welcome  of  one  who  w^ould 
play  the  hero.  And  what  numbers  at  the  present  day  are 
enabled  by  similar  reasoning,  to  obtain  something  of  the  same 
courage  or  calmness  in  the  dying  hour. 

3.  Wilhngness  to  die  may  spring  from  the  melancholy  of 
worldly  disappointment.  When  plans  for  earthly  happiness 
have  all  failed  one  after  another  by  the  death  of  friends,  the 
loss  of  property,  and  other  like  calamities,  men  are  sometimes 
driven  to  such  a  state  of  desperation,  as  to  rush  into  the  arms 
of  death,  and  with  their  own  hands  direct  his  shaft  to  the  seat 
of  life.  But  not  to  dwell  on  these  instances  of  self-destruc- 
tion, it  is  enough  that  there  are  others,  in  which  the  spirits  are 
so  crushed  by  a  weight  of  troubles,  that  notliing  earthly  can 
raise  them  ;  and,  while  the  refuge  to  be  found  in  God  is-for- 
gotten,  an  imaginary  one  is  looked  for  in  the  dark  and  silent 
grave.  The  grave  is  regarded  only  as  the  termination  of  a 
long  series  of  misfortunes.  It  is  a  bed  of  rest,  a  home  of 
peace,  a  safe  asylum,  which  no  oppressor's  arm,  nor  any 
change  of  fortune,  can  destroy  or  disturb.  Perhaps  a  senti- 
mental misanthropy  and  sickness  of  the  world  spread  their 
blighting  influence  over  the  soul.  The  earth  appears  a  wil- 
derness of  blasted  prospects — a  land  where'  there  is  no  friend- 
ship, and  no  virtue,  and  no  enjoyment.  There  seems  no  more 
good  to  hope  for  from  remaining  here.  Perhaps  an  indefin- 
ite idea  of  some  kind  of  happiness,  somewhere  beyond  the 
tomb,  has  an  influence  in  reconciling  the  soul  to  its  depar- 
ture, but  at  all  events  that  departure  will  be  a  release  from 
this  dungeon  of  a  world. 

4.  Willingness  to  die  may  spring  from  the  unwarranted 
consolation  of  friends.  When  one  who  has  lived  all  his  days, 
in  acknowledged  impenitence,  is  brought  to  the  borders  of 
the  eternal  world,  the  christian  friends,  who  may  stand  around 
him,  often  have  a  conflict  in  their  feelings,  between  sympathy 
in  his  distress,   and  compassion  for  his  soul.     Thus  they  are 


SERMON   X. 


359 


tempted  to  be  unfaithful  in  christian  duty.  And  too  fre- 
quently natural  affection  prevails  over  spiritual  benevolence 
to  such  a  degree,  that  they  speak  only  "  smooth  things"  to 
the  dying  sinner.  Perhaps  they  venture  to  say  to  him  with 
a  faltering  voice,  "  Can  you  not  give  us  some  hope  ?  Are  you 
not  willing  to  die  ?"  The  poor  sufferer,  affected  at  the  sight 
of  their  tears,  faintly  replies,  "  O  yes  !"  He  sees  that  this 
answer  comforts  them  ;  and  he  too  is  comforted.  He  sees 
that  Christians  are  beginning  to  hope  for  his  safety  ;  and  with 
that  he  is  ready  to  think  himself  out  of  danger.  What  won- 
der if  he  be  now  willing  to  die  ?  And  yet  if  the  repentance 
and  faith  required  in  the  gospel  be  the  only  preparation  for 
death,  the  man  has  not  given  the  least  evidence  of  being  pre- 
pared for  it.  He  has  shown  no  sorrow  for  sin,  nor  any  trust 
in  the  Saviour.  Not  a  word  has  been  said  about  repenting 
and  believing.  From  all  that  appears  there  is  clearly  no 
proof,  that  he  has  any  desire  to  be  delivered  from  the  bon- 
dage of  iniquity,  and  brought  into  the  holy  liberty  of  the  king- 
dom of  heaven. 

5.  Willingness  to  die  may  spring  from  spiritual  stupidity. 
The  opinion  that  impenitent  men  are  awakened  on  a  death- 
bed to  a  sense  of  their  real  condition,  if  they  are  not  brought 
to  repentance,  is  probably  more  general,  than  the  fact  will  be 
found  to  be  from  extensive  observation.  It  may  be  true  that 
most  of  them  manifest  some  degree  of  alarm  ;  yet  in  what  a 
multitude  of  cases  this  alarm  is  evidently  that  of  a  sufferer  in- 
stead of  a  sinner,  and  arises  from  the  dread  of  punishment 
rather  than  the  hatred  of  iniquity.  Who  can  have  any  doubt 
of  this,  when  hardly  an  instance  can  be  found,  in  which  the 
terrors  of  a  sick  bed  have  issued  in  a  piety,  which  has  not 
vanished  with  the  return  of  health  ?  Does  it  not  then  follow 
that  they,  who  are  thus  terrified  at  the  approach  of  death, 
may  still  be  stupid  as  to  every  thing  truly  spiritual  ?  They 
show  no  conviction  of  the  guilt  of  sin — no  sense  of  their  crim- 
inality in  the  sight  of  God.  They  are  not  awakened,  to  see 
and  feel  their  condition,  as  transgressors  of  God's  law,  and  as 
ruined  immortals  without  his  mercy  through  the  blood  of 


360 


SERMON  X. 


atonement.    And  when  their  natural  fears  are  overcome,  a» 
they  often  are  in  various  ways,  they  may  be  so  insensible  to 
spiritual  things,  as  to  feel  no  unwillingness  to  die.     But  there 
are  others  among  the  impenitent,  in  whom  the  near  view  of 
death  produces  no  alarm  whatever.     Not  only  is  the  con- 
science too  deeply  stupified  or  seared,  to  be  affected  by  a 
sense  of  sin,  but  through  its  influence,  and  that  of  a  hardened 
heart,  the  soul  is  too  much  asleep  to  be  sensible  of  its  danger. 
Here  is  no  wakefulness  of  any  kind.     The  eyes  and  ears  are 
closed  ;  and  in  this  universal  sleep  the  things  of  religion  are 
most  of  all  forgotten.     The  light  of  heaven  is  not  seen  ;  the 
calls  and  warnings  of  the  gospel  are  not  heard.     Truth  finds 
no  entrance  into  the  understanding ;  touches  not  the  con- 
science ;  and  makes  no  impression  on  the  heart.     In  such  a 
state  of  the  soul  there  may  be  no  reluctance  to  die.     If  men 
pass  through  life  in  stupidity,  why  may  it  not  be  expected, 
that  God  will  leave  them  to  close  it  in  stupidity  ?  I  know  it 
has  often  been  said,  that  "  men  may  live  fools,  but  fools  they 
cannot  die."     And  yet  this  is  by  no  means  so  near  a  general 
truth,  as  the  sentiment,  that  "  men  die  as  they  live."     Ask 
those  whose  profession  leads  them,  to  make  frequent  visits  to 
death  beds  ;  and  they  will  tell  you  so.     Ask  the  aged,  who 
have  seen  two  or  three  generations  pass  away  ;  and  they  will 
tell  you  so.     If  men  are  willing  to  live  in  stupidity,  it  is  pro- 
bable, that  in  the  same  stupidity  they  will  be  willing  to  die. 

6.  Willingness  to  die  may  spring  from  religious  error.  If 
a  man  believes  that  no  preparation  for  death  is  necessary,  or 
regards  that  as  a  preparation  which  is  none  in  reality,  or 
thinks  himself  possessed  of  the  true  preparation  when  he  is 
not,  he  has  embraced  a  delusion,  which  may  give  him  a  false 
peace  in  the  dying  hour. 

The  first  class  of  men,  here  mentioned,  believe  that  no 
preparation  for  death  is  necessary.  This  they  believe,  be- 
cause they  look  upon  Christianity  as  a  fable,  and  eternal  life 
as  a  dream,  or  because  they  regard  the  end  of  this  earthly 
course  as  the  beginning  of  everlasting  happiness  to  all  men. 
It  surely  cannot  be  strange,  if  the  settled  belief  in  the  doc- 


SERMON  X.  361 

trine,  that  God  will  hereafter  make  no  distinction  in  the  des- 
tiny of  men,  according  to  their  present  difference  of  character, 
should  reconcile  the  soul  to  its  departure  from  such  a  world 
as  this.  Why  should  the  act  of  expiring  be  terrible  to  one, 
who  regards  it  as  opening  the  door  of  heaven,  to  the  believer 
and  the  infidel,  the  holy  and  the  unholy,  thus  rendering  his 
own  salvation  sure,  whatever  may  be  his  moral  state  ?  It  is 
true  that  men,  who  have  spent  years  of  health  and  pleasure 
in  the  belief  of  this  opinion,  are  sometimes  driven  by  the 
king  of  terrors,  to  renounce  it  in  anguish  of  despair.  But 
this  is  by  no  means  uniformly  the  fact.  And  why  should  we 
expect  it  to  be  ?  Why  should  it  be  thought  strange,  that  men 
who  are  given  up  to  strong  delusion,  in  the  midst  of  their 
days,  should  also  be  given  up  at  their  end?  Upon  what  prin- 
ciple can  it  be  expected,  that  the  sentiments  which  have  been 
long  cherished,  and  openly  avowed,  and  contended  for  with 
the  enlisted  power  of  the  passions  and  prejudices,  should  be 
at  once  renounced  in  dismay,  at  an  hour  when  the  motives  to 
hold  them  fast  are  considered  to  be  more  and  greater  than 
ever  ?  When  the  dying  man  thinks  that  his  sentiments  are 
now  brought  to  the  test,  and  sees  his  opponents  watching  the 
trial,  and  hears  his  abettors  bidding  him  be  of  good  cheer,  and 
be  true  to  their  common  cause,  it  must  be  a  mighty  influ- 
ence from  above,  that  in  the  face  of  all  these  obstacles  can 
make  him  willing  to  desert  this  cause,  and  desert  the  friends 
of  it,  and  in  the  presence  of  its  enemies  pour  contempt  upon 
all  his  past  reasonings  in  defence  of  it.  No,  no, — he  will  not 
do  it.  Pride  and  honour  forbid  ;  and  come  what  may,  he 
will  not  do  it.  The  power  of  God  can  indeed  produce  such 
a  change,  however  great  the  difficulties  to  be  overcome  ;  but 
how  seldom  is  his  power  put  forth  for  this  purpose  ;  and  how 
little  ought  we  to  expect  it  to  be. 

The  second  class  of  men,  mentioned  under  this  head,  re-. 
gard  that  as  a  preparation  for  death,  which  is  none  in  reality. 
Some  of  these  look  upon  a  life  of  mere  negative  virtue,  as  se- 
curing them  from  punishment  hereafter;  and  they  are  not 
afraid  to  die,  because  they  have  never  injured  any  one — have 

46 


362  SERMON    X. 

done  no  harm  in  the  world.  Others  consider  a  Hfe  of  active 
morahty,  as  entithng  them  to  happiness  beyond  the  grave ; 
and  they  can  close  their  days  in  quiet,  by  making  their  appeal 
to  a  Judge  who  will  not  wrong  them.  "  God  is  just"  say  they  ; 
and  this  is  thought  to  be  enough  for  them.  There  are  some 
that  regard  their  attendance  on  the  means  of  grace,  or  their 
outward  observance  of  the  institutions  of  Christianity — their 
baptism,  or  their  church-membership,  as  securing  for  them  a 
seat  in  heaven ;  and  why  should  they  tremble  at  the  thought 
of  going  to  occupy  it  ?  Others  there  are,  that  esteem  it  a  suf- 
ficient preparation  for  death,  to  have  a  speculative  belief  in 
the  truth  of  the  Christian  religion  ;  and  there  are  others  still, 
that  depend  for  salvation  on  the  mere  fact,  that  Christ  has 
died  for  sinners.  Why  should  it  be  matter  of  surprise,  that 
such  men  should  leave  the  world  without  terror,  or  even  with 
joy  ?  It  may  justly  excite  astonishment,  that  they,  or  any  of 
those  now  enumerated,  can,  with  the  bible  in  their  hands,  re- 
ceive what  they  do,  as  the  ground  of  their  acceptance  with 
God  ;  but  when  they  have  once  done  this,  and  brought  them- 
selves to  believe  that  their  names  are  in  the  book  of  life,  it  is 
surely  no  surprising  thing,  that  they  can  hear  the  summons  of 
the  last  messenger  without  dismay. 

The  third  class  of  men  spoken  of  under  the  present  head, 
consider  themselves  as  possessing  the  true  preparation  for 
death,  when  they  do  not.  They  have  neither  denied  nor  mis 
taken  the  terms  of  salvation.  Their  error  lies  in  the  belief 
that  they  have  complied  with  them,  when  the  sad  reality  is, 
that  they  have  not.  They  acknowledge  the  necessity  of  re- 
pentance and  faith  ;  but  they  think  that  they  have  renounced 
their  sins,  and  put  their  trust  in  Christ,  when  they  have  done 
it  only  in  appearance,  and  not  in  heart.  They  are  deceived 
respecting  the  state  of  their  affections,  and  the  character  of 
their  motives,  in  the  sight  of  God.  On  this  deception  they 
have  built  a  false  hope  of  heaven.  It  is  a  hope  which  must 
fail  them  in  the  day  when  it  is  fully  tried  ;  but  that  day  may 
not  come  in  this  world.  Though  their  house  is  built  on  the 
sand,  the  storm  that    is  to  sweep  it  away  may  not   come  at 


SERMON  X.  363 

death.  It  may  then  be  a  refuge,  in  which  they  can  hush 
their  fears  to  sleep,  and  dehght  themselves  with  dreams  of 
safety  and  everlasting  rest. 

As  respects  the  three  classes  of  men,  that  have  now  been 
enumerated,  it  seems  abundantly  evident,  that  they  may  be 
made  willing  to  die,  by  the  influence  of  erroneous  views  of 
the  subject  of  religion,  or  of  their  own  religious  character. 
It  cannot  be  important  to  add  any  more  to  the  particular  il- 
lustrations under  this  head  of  the  discourse.  Nor  can  it  be 
necessary  to  multiply  any  farther  the  reasons  why  men  are 
willing  to  die.  It  must  be  plain  that  there  are  many,  be- 
sides the  one  recorded  in  the  text — many  besides  those  which 
proceed  from  holiness  of  heart.  No  doubt  then  can  remain 
respecting  the  truth  of  the  sentiment,  that  mere  willingness 
to  die  is  no  evidence  of  preparation  for  death.  This  is  the 
sentiment  which  was  proposed  for  proof;  and  if  it  has  been 
shown  to  be  an  undeniable  truth,  it  is  one  that  suggests  seve- 
ral reflections  of  solemn  and  practical  moment. 

1.  Great  caution  is  necessary  in  speaking  of  the  evidences 
of  preparation  for  death.  If  through  the  influence  of  sympa- 
thy for  the  bereaved,  or  from  any  other  cause,  we  allow  our- 
selves to  speak  of  any  thing  as  an  evidence  of  such  prepara- 
tion, when  the  gospel  decides  that  it  is  not,  we  may  do  much 
towards  deceiving  our  fellow  men  to  their  ruin ;  and  we  our- 
selves by  this  practice  may  at  length  be  deceived  in  like  man- 
ner. It  is  a  practice  which  sets  up  a  wrong  standard,  for 
men  to  judge  themselves  by ;  and  removes  the  right  one  out 
of  sight.  It  puts  darkness  for  light,  and  light  for  darkness. 
It  tends  to  make  men  live  at  ease  in  sin,  with  the  expectation 
that  charity  will  find  something  in  the  circumstances  of  their 
death,  on  which  to  build  a  hope  of  their  happiness.  It  makes 
them  forget  the  necessity  of  repentance  and  faith,  by  show- 
ing them  how  easily  the  want  of  these  m  the  dying  hour  can 
be  overlooked.  When  the  opinion  is  circulated,  that  this 
man  and  that  have  made  a  happy  exchange  of  worlds,  merely 
because  they  were  willing  to  die,  or  on  any  other  unscriptu- 
ral  ground,  many  are  more  ready  to  receive  wrong  impres- 


364 


SERMON  X. 


sions,  tlian  they  are  to  receive  right  ones  from  the  reading 
and  the  preaching  of  the  gospel.  It  may  be  asked,  if  we  can 
have  the  cruelty  to  tell  the  mourning,  that  their  departed 
friend  gave  little  or  no  evidence  of  l>eing  prepared  to  leave 
the  M'orld.  No — we  cannot.  And  it  can  hardly  ever  be  our 
duty  to  do  it.  But,  on  the  contrary,  it  cannot  be  our  duty  to 
tell  the  mourning,  that  their  departed  friend  gave  evidence 
of  being  fitted  for  heaven,  when  he  did  not.  It  is  far  better 
to  be  silent,  on  this  subject,  in  their  presence,  than  to  speak 
only  to  deceive  them.  We  had  better  say  nothing,  than  to 
say  that  which  will  not  bear  the  test  of  God's  word.  We 
cannot  be  too  careful  on  all  occasions,  to  produce  or  to  deep- 
en the  impression,  that  men  give  evidence  of  preparation  for 
death,  just  so  far  as  they  give  evidence  of  having  renounced 
their  sins,  and  put  their  trust  in  Christ,  and  no  further.  Show 
me  proof  of  a  man's  penitence  and  faith  ;  and  the  gos- 
pel bids  me  hope  for  him,  and  comfort  his  friends  with  this 
hope.  But  tell  me  merely  of  a  man's  willingness  to  die  ;  and 
the  gospel  bids  me  say  nothing,  till  I  have  inquired  for  the 
reason  of  this  willingness.  If  it  be  that  given  in  the  text,  or 
one  like  it  in  hohness,  there  is  scriptural  ground  for  strong 
hope  and  rich  consolation. 

2.  The  true  preparation  for  death  is  a  moral  one.  If  the 
view  which  we  have  now  taken  of  the  subject  before  us  be 
correct,  we  can  turn  to  no  part  of  it  without  making  this  re- 
jflection.  It  is  a  truth  that  appears  at  every  step  in  the  pre- 
ceeding  course  of  reasoning.  It  is  the  all-pervading  spirit  of 
the  whole.  To  prepare  for  death  is  the  work  of  the  heart. 
It  is  not  a  mere  exercise  of  the  understanding  receiving  this 
or  that  system  of  religion  as  true,  or  interpreting  parts  of  the 
Bible  in  this  or  that  manner.  It  is  not  a  mere  set  of  opinions 
of  any  kind,  either  right  or  wrong.  Nor  does  it  consist  in  a 
mere  outward  performance  of  some  of  the  duties  of  Chris- 
tianity. It  is  not  a  round  of  lifeless  ceremonies.  It  is  a  deep 
thing  of  the  soul ;  and  takes  strong  hold  of  the  seat  of  life. 
It  has  much  to  do  with  the  afiections  and  motives  ;  and  ex- 
erts a  governing  influence  over  all  the  sjjringsof  moral  action. 


SERMON  X.  365 

It  consists  in  that  holiness  of  heart  and  life,  which  is  the  fruit 
of  repentance  and  faith.  Without  this  iioHness  no  man  shall 
see  the  Lord,  and  be  present  with  him,  when  he  has  closed 
his  eyes  on  all  sublunary  things,  and  is  absent  from  the  body. 
It  is  a  clear  and  a  deep-felt  sense  of  this  truth,  that  sometimes 
makes  such  men  as  Baxter  and  Edwards  and  Scott  and 
Dwight,  after  a  long  life  of  eminent  piety,  approach  the  eter- 
nal world  with  more  or  less  of  the  trembling  of  doubt  and 
fear.  They  see  a  holy  God  on  the  throne,  and  around  him  a 
world  of  holy  beings — a  world  shining  with  the  glories  of  ho- 
liness, and  resounding  with  its  everlasting  songs.  All  this 
they  see  with  the  full  gaze  of  faith,  while  they  know  and  feel 
their  own  deep  vileness.  But  when  such  men  tremble  on 
their  death-bed,  O  it  is  pitiable  to  see  those,  who  have  spent 
all  their  days  in  forgetfulness  of  God  and  eternity,  willing  to 
die. 

3.  The  true  preparation  for  death  is  one  that  is  to  be  made 
in  life.  Preparation  for  any  event  is  something  to  be  done 
previous  to  the  event  itself.  It  is  absurd  to  talk  of  a  man's 
preparing  for  death  when  he  is  actually  dying.  There  is 
not  the  least  proof  from  the  bible,  or  in  the  nature  of  things, 
that  the  event,  which  dissolves  the  union  between  the  soul 
and  the  body,  produces  a  radical  change  in  the  moral  charac- 
ter. What  is  there,  what  can  there  be,  in  the  passage  through 
the  dark  valley,  to  take  the  aifections  at  once  from  objects,  on 
which  they  have  been  fixed  for  years,  and  fix  them  on  objects 
as  difierent  from  these,  as  heaven  is  from  earth  ?  Can  it  be 
believed  that  the  man,  whose  last  accents  in  this  world  are, 
"  Gold,  thou  art  my  portion,"  will  be  prepared  to  say  the  mo- 
ment after,  as  he  awakes  in  eternity,  "  Whom  have  I  in  hea- 
ven, O  God,  but  thee  ?"  Will  the  man  whose  supreme  object 
in  life  has  been,  to  lay  up  treasures  on  the  earth,  find  himself, 
the  moment  after  death,  in  full  possession  of  that  inheritance 
which  is  incorruptible  and  undefiled,  and  which  fadeth  not 
away  ?  Will  the  man,  who  has  drunk,  all  his  days,  and  drunk 
deep,  at  the  polluted  stream  of  this  world's  pleasure,  be  pre- 
pared as  soon  as  he  dies,  to  drink  of  that  pure  river  of  bliss, 


366  SERMON  X. 

flowing  from  the  throne  of  God  and  the  Lamb  ?  Will  the  man 
who,  during  all  his  mortal  life,  has  loved  the  praise  of  men 
more  than  the  praise  of  God,  find  himself  the  moment  after 
death  standing  and  bowing  with  the  adoring  hosts  of  heaven, 
and  ready  to  cast  down  his  crown  with  theirs,  and  take  up 
their  song  of  "  Blessing  and  honour  and  glory  and  power  unto 
Him  that  sitteth  on  the  throne  and  to  the  Lamb  that  was 
slain  ?"  In  short,  my  hearers,  will  they  that  are  unjust  through 
life  and  in  death,  be  righteous  afterwards  ?  Or  will  they  be 
unjust  still  ?  Will  the  filthy  here  be  holy  hereafter  ?  Or  will 
they  be  filthy  still  ?  Let  the  word  of  God  decide. 

Will  it  be  said  that  though  the  moral  character  be  not 
changed  by  the  event  of  dying,  it  may  be  changed  just  before 
the  event  ?  Through  the  power  of  divine  grace  there  is  a  pos- 
sibility that  it  may.  But  judging  from  the  conduct  of  men 
who  recover  from  alarming  sickness,  and  from  other  argu- 
ments, there  is  most  fearful  reason  to  think  that  it  is  seldom 
the  fact.  On  the  contrary  it  may  doubtless  be  received  as  a 
general  truth,  that  men  die  as  they  live.  We  are  now,  then, 
my  dear  hearers,  from  one  year  to  another,  and  every  day  and 
hour,  forming  our  characters  for  eternity.  It  becomes  there- 
fore a  question  of  immense  interest  whether  we  are  preparing 
to  be  present  with  the  Lord  when  we  shall  be  absent  from  the 
body.  Have  we  felt  sincere  and  lasting  sorrow  for  our  sins 
and  forsaken  them  with  all  the  heart  ?  Have  we  come  to  Christ 
and  cast  our  souls  on  his  mercy  through  the  blood  of  atone- 
ment ?  If  we  have,  and  continue  to  the  end  of  our  days,  to 
manifest  the  reality  of  our  penitence  and  faith,  by  the  graces 
and  virtues  of  a  holy  life,  we  shall  not  be  deceived  in  the  dy- 
ing hour  by  a  false  and  fatal  peace.  Nor  shall  we  have  to 
mourn  in  the  bitterness  of  despair,  and  say  "  My  days  are 
passed,"  and  heaven  is  lost  forever. 


SERMON  XI. 

JOB,  xiv.  19. 
"  Thou  destroyest  the  hope  of  man." 

In  this  world  of  intermingled  good  and  evil,  mankind  live 
upon  hope.  Were  thei'e  nothing  here  but  good,  hope  would 
probably  be  lost  in  enjoyment  ;  and  were  there  nothing  but 
evil,  it  would  probably  be  lost  in  despair.  The  diversified 
and  fluctuating  state  of  earthly  things  is  just  that,  in  which 
this  principle  of  action  might  be  expected  to  become  univer- 
sal and  predominant.  Accordingly,  we  find,  that  men  en- 
dure the  present,  rather  than  enjoy  it,  or  enjoy  it  chiefly  in 
their  anticipation  of  the  future.  Where  is  the  man,  that  is 
not  looking  forward  to  better  days  ?  and  is  not  now  living  for 
the  happiness,  which  they  promise  ?  Who  is  there,  that  says 
in  his  heart,  "  SuflScient  for  the  day  is  the  good  thereof  V* 
Who  that  hopes  for  no  more,  than  he  receives,  as  he  passes 
along  from  one  year  to  another  ?  Who  would  not  feel  his  pre- 
sent happiness  destroyed  at  once,  were  he  to  be  fully  convin- 
ced by  the  assurance  of  God,  that  no  greater  is  in  store  for 
him  ? 

In  making  these  remarks  on  the  influence  of  hope,  I  have 
not  intended  to  intimate,  that  it  is  a  principle  of  action  unwor- 
thy of  a  rational  being,  or  unjustifiable  in  a  subject  of  the  di- 
vine government.  On  the  contrary,  its  influence  is  so  im- 
portant, in  the  present  state  of  things,  that  it  is  impossible  to 
conceive,  how  the  common  business  of  life,  or  the  more  sa- 
cred duties  of  religion,  could  be  performed,  without  the  mo- 
tives, which  it  affords.  Reason  would  soon  be  dethroned, 
and  the  soul  subjected  to  the  dominion  of  animal  appetite, 


SERMON  XI. 

and  the  life  of  depraved  man  would  be  changed  into  that  of 
a  beast,  were  he  to  be  deprived  of  the  privilege  of  looking  for 
good  to  come,  and  limited  in  his  views  and  desires  to  the  ob- 
jects of  the  passing  moment.  The  principle  of  hope  is  in  it- 
self as  exalted,  as  the  exercise  of  it  is  delightful.  It  is  to  be 
condemned  only  when  it  is  fixed  on  forbidden  objects,  or  on 
lawful  objects  in  a  forbidden  degree.  When  it  is  fixed  on 
God, — on  the  prosperity  of  his  kingdom,  and  the  glory  of  his 
name, — on  the  participation  of  his  holiness,  and  the  enjoy- 
ment of  his  everlasting  favour, — it  is  in  obedience  to  the  di- 
vine commands,  and  is  in  no  danger  of  becoming  too  great  in 
its  power  over  the  heart  and  the  conduct.  When  it  is  fixed 
on  the  gratification  of  the  senses, — or  the  acquisition  of  wealth, 
rank,  and  power,  for  the  purposes  of  self-aggrandizement  and 
self-indulgence, — it  is  in  violation  of  the  divine  commands, 
and  is  deceiving  the  soul  to  its  eternal  ruin.  When  it  is  fix- 
ed on  such  earthly  objects,  as  are  needful  for  our  comfort  and 
usefulness,  and  agreeable  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  it  is  sinful 
and  destructive  only  by  becoming  supreme,  or  possessing  an 
undue  power  over  our  affections  and  actions.  This  latter 
manner  of  abusing  the  principle  of  hope  is  not  less  general 
than  the  former.  Indeed,  the  man  is  not  to  be  found,  howev- 
er great  may  be  his  attainments  in  piety,  who  is  never,  in 
any  degree,  guilty  of  his  placing  hopes  too  much  on  those 
earthly  things,  that  are  in  themselves  blessings,  but  are  thus 
rendered  hurtful  to  the  graces  and  enjoyments  of  the  most 
exalted  piety  ;  while,  in  such  as  have  no  piety  at  all,  they 
unite  with  the  unlawful  objects  of  hope,  in  leading  the  soul 
onward,  through  multiplied  disappointments,  to  the  woes  of 
an  undone  eternity.  All  men,  of  every  age  and  condition,  of 
every  variety  of  character  in  the  two  great  classes  of  the 
righteous  and  the  wicked,  are  more  or  less  guilty,  of  hoping 
for  happiness  in  ways  and  from  objects,  that  are  in  their  na- 
ture sinful,  or  of  hoping  for  it  with  a  sinful  degree  of  strength, 
in  ways  and  from  objects,  that  are  in  their  nature  lawful. 
These  are  the  earthly  hopes  of  men.  They  are  those,  which 
God  destroys.     However  bright  and  promising  they  may  be 


SERMON    XI.  369 

for  a  while,  the  time  comes  when  he  blasts  them  with  a  breath 
of  his  anger,  or  by  a  chastising  stroke  of  his  mercy, — and 
they  are  gone. 

Thou,  most  righteous  and  merciful  God,  destroyest  the 
earthly  hopes  of  men. 

This,  my  hearers,  is  the  plain  and  affecting  sentiment  of 
the  text.  It  was  uttered  by  Job,  in  an  address  to  the  Divine 
Being,  in  view  of  that  rapid  succession  of  judgments,  by  which 
this  greatest  of  all  the  men  of  the  East  was  deprived  of  his 
ten  children,  stripped  of  his  immense  possessions,  afflicted 
with  a  painful  disease,  and  thus  left  to  mourn  over  the  de- 
struction of  his  own  earthly  hopes,  and  those  of  every  mem- 
ber of  his  numerous  family.  In  his  lips,  therefore,  the  lan- 
guage of  the  text  must  have  been  full  of  meaning. 

In  making  it  the  theme  of  the  present  discourse,  it  is  my 
purpose,  to  call  your  attention,  to  the  fact  that  is  stated, — to 
the  cause  of  it, — to  some  of  the  designs  of  God  in  it, — and  fi- 
nally to  several  practical  inferences.    Let  us  then  contemplate, 

I.  The  fact  that  God  destroys  the  earthly  hopes  of  men. 

That  mankind  are  disappointed,  in  their  expectations  of 
happiness  from  the  world,  is  a  truth  made  evident  by  the  his- 
tory of  all  past  ages,  and  the  experience  of  every  individual, — 
by  daily  observation,  and  the  confession  of  every  tongue. 
From  the  annals  of  every  generation,  since  the  fall,  there 
might  be  collected  a  sad  record  of  blasted  hopes,  and  thwart- 
ed plans,  for  individual  and  national  happiness.  In  such  a 
record,  some  men  would  be  seen  fighting  to  obtain  crowns, 
that  eluded  their  grasp,  or  were  worn  but  for  a  day,  or  proved 
the  means  of  exposure  to  miseries  and  dangers  from  the  dead- 
ly ambition  of  rivals  and  traitors.  Some  would  be  seen  em- 
ploying the  treasures  of  a  kingdom,  and  the  labours  of  half 
its  subjects,  for  many  years,  in  building  monuments,  to  gratify 
a  pride  that  soon  ended  in  their  own  destruction  by  the  re- 
action of  an  oppressed  people,  and  to  perpetuate  names,  that 
were  soon  forgotten,  or  doomed  to  infamy.  With  such  ex- 
amples of  disappointed  hopes,  among  the  great  ones  of  the 

earth,  would  be  seen  similar   instances    without   number, 

47 


370 


SERMON    XI. 


among  the  vast  multitude,  in  their  pursuit  of  humbler  vanities. 
But  why  need  we  search  the  annals  of  past  generations,  and 
trace  the  progress  of  the  high  and  the  low  through  their  mo- 
mentary life,  to  find  ai'guments  in  proof  of  the  sentiment  in 
question  ?  It  is  enough  that  they  are  gone — the  men  and  their 
vanities  together.  It  is  enough,  that  the  millions  of  every 
generation  have  been  carried  away  as  with  a  flood,  and  with 
them  all  their  hopes  and  plans  for  earthly  enjoyment.  Death 
has  cut  short  their  expectations  from  the  world,  and  comple- 
ted the  train  of  their  disappointments  ;  has  awaked  them  from 
their  dreams  of  power,  turned  their  bright  visions  of  pleasure 
into  darkness,  crumbled  their  monuments  of  fame  into  dust, 
and  scattered  their  treasures  to  the  winds,  and  brought  down 
their  pomp  and  glory  to  the  level  of  worms  and  ashes.  Over 
them,  and  their  blasted  prospects,  the  king  of  terrors  shakes 
his  iron  sceptre  in  triumph  ;  while  he  points  the  multitudes  of 
the  living  to  this  scene  of  destruction,  and  calls  upon  them  as 
they  walk  thoughtlessly  over  it,  to  prepare  to  lie  down  in  its 
gloom  and  corruption.  Let  us  then  turn  to  the  living,  for  in- 
struction on  the  subject  before  us.  And  let  us  confine  our 
attention  to  those  within  the  reach  of  our  acquaintance  or  ob- 
servation,— to  the  poor  and  the  wealthy,  the  humble  and  the 
eminent, — to  the  young,  that  are  just  coming  forward  into  the 
active  scenes  of  life, — the  middle-aged,  that  are  buried  in  its 
cares,  or  driven  to  and  fro  by  its  tumults, — and  the  aged,  that 
are  bowing  beneath  its  load  of  infirmities,  and  tottering  along 
its  last  stages,  on  the  brink  of  the  invisible  world.  From  this 
near  view  of  mankind,  in  all  their  varieties  of  character  and 
condition,  what  a  multitude  of  facts  crowd  together  before 
our  eyes,  and  rush  upon  our  memories,  to  give  us  a  heart-felt 
sense  of  the  vanity  of  those  hopes,  that  terminate  on  the  shad- 
ows of  time.  We  see  the  poor  disappointed  in  their  plans 
for  acquiring  wealth,  and  the  ambitious  in  theirs  for  obtaining 
the  bubbles  of  rank  and  fame.  We  see  the  young  disap- 
pointed in  their  anticipations  of  pleasure,  the  middle-aged  in 
theirs  of  grandeur,  and  the  aged  in  theirs  of  dignified  retire- 
ment.    Or  if  these  various  objects  appear,  now  and  then,  to 


SERMON  XI.  371 

be  gained,  the  enjoyment  derived  from  them  falls  far  below 
the  calculations  of  hope.  We  see  parents  looking  to  the 
world,  for  more  good,  to  be  the  portion  of  their  children,  than 
the  world  with  all  its  fair  promises  can  give.  We  see  chil- 
dren cut  down  in  their  bloom,  like  the  flowers,  that  flourish 
in  the  morning,  and  wither  at  night.  Many  who  are  flattered 
into  high  expectations  of  long  life,  by  the  animal  vigour  and 
buoyant  spirits  of  youth,  we  behold  continually  dropping  into 
the  grave,  and  leaving  behind  them  no  memorial  of  their  ex- 
istence. The  few,  that  have  reached  the  age  of  threescore 
years  and  ten,  we  behold  not  without  the  expectation  of  living 
another  year  because  they  have  lived  through  the  last,  and 
yet  another  for  the  same  reason,  and  because  others  have  liv- 
ed still  longer  ;  so  that  even  they  are  surprised  by  death,  and 
torn  from  a  world  to  which  they  fondly  cling.  Thus  are  the 
earthly  hopes  of  men  destroyed,  one  after  another ;  and  the 
ruins  of  all  are  at  last  swept  into  the  grave  together,  and  for- 
gotten. Men  pass  through  hfe,  in  pursuit  of  phantoms,  that 
keep  ever  before  them,  eluding  their  grasp,  but  tempting  their 
sight,  till  they  vanish  at  that  stroke,  which  blots  from  their 
view  at  once  this  whole  world  of  vanities.  Many  a  time,  at 
longer  or  shorter  intervals,  they  come  to  the  period  set  for 
the  fulfilment  of  their  hopes  ;  and,  being  disappointed,  they 
remove  it  further  forward  ;  and,  coming  to  it  again,  they  re- 
move it  further  still,  for  the  same  reason;  and  thus  they  go 
on,  till,  having  reached  the  end  of  their  course,  they  cast 
back,  over  its  train  of  thwarted  plans,  and  blasted  prospects, 
a  look  of  longing  and  despairing,  and  then  close  their  eyes  in 
the  sleep  of  death.  The  cords  that  bind  men  to  life  are  like 
the  threads  of  the  spider,  broken  by  a  touch,  or  a  breath  ;  and 
those  that  bind  them  to  any  earthly  portion  can  be  no  strong- 
er. Their  firmest  fabrics  of  sublunary  happiness  are  built 
upon  the  sand.  This  sentiment  is  not  the  mere  declaration 
of  melancholy,  or  poetic  enthusiasm.  It  is  contained, — all  of 
it, — in  the  plain  language  of  the  text,  strengthened  as  it  is  by 
an  accumulation  of  striking  allusions,  introduced  to  prepare  the 
mind  to  feel  its  whole  force.  "  Surely  the  mountain" — the 
mountain,  "  falling,  cometh  to  nought,  and  the  rock  is  removed 


sn 


SERMON  XI. 


out  of  his  place  ;  the  waters  wear  the  stones ;  thou  washest 
away  the  things  that  grow  out  of  the  dust  of  the  earth ; — and 
thou  destroyest  the  hope  of  man."  Plans  for  terrestrial  en- 
joyment are  like  buildings  erected  along  the  margin  of  a  rapid 
stream,  that  gradually  undermines  them,  or,  swollen  to  a  tor- 
rent by  a  sudden  storm,  overthrows  them  in  a  moment,  and 
buries  their  scattered  ruins  in  depths  unknown,  or  sweeps 
them  away  to  distances,  from  which  they  can  be  gathered  no 
more.  Thus  are  the  earthly  hopes  of  men  destroyed.  The 
fact  of  their  destruction  no  one  with  his  eyes  open  can  doubt. 
That  they  are  destroyed  by  God,  must  be  equally  evident  to 
every  believer  in  divine  revelation.  Thou,  Lord  of  heaven 
and  earth,  destroyest  the  hope  of  man. 

To  you,  brethren,  it  is  clear  as  the  language  of  eternal  truth 
can  make  it,  that  this  destruction  is  not  effected,  either  by  a 
fortuitous  combination  of  circumstances,  or  by  an  inherent 
necessity  in  the  constitution  of  things,  or  by  any  independent 
power  of  Satan  over  mankind,  or  of  mankind  themselves  over 
each  other.  You  see  in  the  work  the  agency  of  Jehovah's  all- 
ruling  hand.  You  know  that  there  is  not,  in  the  universe, 
any  agency  in  operation,  that  is  not  entirely  under  his  con- 
trol ;  and  this  knowledge  is  the  ground  of  all  your  confidence 
and  delight  in  him.  This  ground  of  confidence  and  delight 
will  not  fail,  even  in  the  day  when  he  destroys  your  own 
earthly  hopes.  If  you  have  the  temper  of  Job,  it  surely  will 
not.  Soon  as  the  tidings,  of  his  loss  of  all  things,  reach  this 
man  of  God,  he  exclaims, "  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath 
taken  away ;  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord."  This-  he 
says,  when  the  work  of  destruction,  over  which  he  mourns,  is 
particularly  ascribed,  in  every  part  of  its  progress,  to  the 
prince  of  fallen  spirits,  as  the  subordinate  agent.  The  holy 
patriarch  entirely  overlooks  Satan,  and  his  emissaries,  the 
Sabeans  and  Chaldeans,  as  well  as  the  fire  of  heaven,  and 
the  wind  of  the  wilderness ;  and,  regarding  them  all  as  in- 
struments, the  former  voluntary,  and  the  latter  involuntary 
instruments,  in  the  hands  of  the  Divine  Being,  fixes  the  eye  of 
feith  on  him  alone,  as  the  righteous  Author  of  his  afflictions. 


SERMON  XI.  373 

He  looks  up  to  a  benevolent  Sovereign  on  the  throne,  and 
praises  him,  while  surrounded  with  clouds  and  darkness ;  and 
thus  obtains  support,  and  even  peace,  in  the  midst  of  an  over- 
whelming flood  of  calamities.  It  is  the  living  God,  who  takes 
away  the  earthly  props,  on  which  mortals  lean.  He  gives 
wings  to  their  riches  ;  dries  up  their  streams  of  pleasure  ;  and 
stains  the  pride  of  all  their  glory.  He  sends  the  cup  of  afflic- 
tion round  from  one  family  to  another ;  and  requires  all  to 
drink  of  it  in  their  turn.  He  makes  human  life  like  a  vapour, 
that  appears  for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanishes  away.  He 
makes  the  beauty  of  man  fade  as  that  of  a  leaf ;  and  causes 
him  to  say,  with  his  expiring  breath  ;  in  the  language  of  Job 
in  the  context,  "  My  days  are  past,  my  purposes  are  broken 
off,  even  the  thoughts  of  my  heart ; — and  where  is  now  my 
hope  ?  as  for  my  hope,  who  shall  see  it  ?" 

But,  not  to  dwell  any  longer  on  the  fact,  that  God  destroys 
the  earthly  hopes  of  men,  let  us  proceed  to  consider, 

n.  The  cause  of  his  doing  it. 

You  cannot  expect  me  to  prove  in  a  formal  manner  what 
this  cause  is ;  or  to  waste  time  in  searching  for  it  in  one  di- 
rection and  another,  as  if  it  were  hard  to  be  discovered,  in- 
stead of  being  the  most  prominent  thing  in  our  world.  Your 
thoughts  are  turned  at  once  to  sin,  as  the  cause  of  all  the  evil, 
with  which  God  afflicts  the  human  family.  You  probably 
see  no  room  for  the  least  doubt,  or  difference  of  opinion,  on 
this  subject,  among  believers  in  divine  revelation.  You  see 
not  why  all  must  not  find  the  same  doctrine  on  every  page  of 
the  sacred  volume.  And  all  would  find  it,  were  there  not 
some,  whose  systems  of  philosophy  require  them  to  be  wise, 
above  that  which  is  written,  if  not  in  opposition  to  it.  These 
men  venture  to  advance  the  opinion,  that  had  our  first  pa- 
rents remained  holy,  and  all  their  posterity  been  hke  them, 
they  might  still  have  suffered  as  sensitive  beings,  though  not 
as  moral  agents.  This  they  feel  obliged  to  say,  in  order  to 
account  for  the  suflferings  of  infants,  since  the  doctrine  of  nat- 
ural depravity,  is  no  part  of  their  philosophical  system.  In 
support  of  this  opinion  they  bring,  not  only  their  own  con- 


374  SERMON   XI. 

jectures  respecting  what  would  be  necessary  or  probable  in 
the  human  constitution  without  sin,  but  also  the  actual  suf- 
ferings of  the  brute  creation.  These  sufferings,  however, 
cannot  with  propriety  be  brought  for  this  purpose,  till  it  be 
shown,  that  mankind,  in  regard  to  the  animal  part  of  their 
constitution,  sustain  a  relation  to  their  Maker  like  that  of 
brutes,  and  are  no  more  accountable  for  the  manner  of  using 
their  animal  powers  and  appetites.  But  to  show  this,  is  what 
was  never  attempted,  except  by  those  atheistical  philoso- 
phers, who  include  it  in  their  doctrine  of  man's  entire  free- 
dom from  accountability  to  a  Higher  Power.  There  is 
therefore  no  proof,  that  mankind,  if  they  had  never  fallen, 
would  have  endured  pain  as  sensitive  beings.  God  was  cer- 
tainly able  to  form  bodies,  that  he  could  preserve  forever  free 
from  distress  and  decay.  That  such  were  the  bodies  of  our 
first  parents,  when  they  were  made,  is  evident  from  the  fact, 
that  the  death  of  their  bodies  is  a  part  of  the  penalty  of  that 
law,  under  which  they  were  placed  for  trial,  and  also  from 
the  fact,  that  toil  and  pain  of  body  are  included  in  the  curse, 
pronounced  on  them  after  their  apostacy.  It  may  then  be 
asserted  without  hesitation,  that  all  the  miseries,  which  man- 
kind endure,  are  the  effects  of  sin.  "  By  one  man  sin  en- 
tered into  the  world,  and  death  by  sin  ;  and  so  death  passed 
upon  all  men,  for  that  all  have  sinned."  Sin  entered,  and 
the  long  train  of  earthly  calamities  ending  in  death  quickly 
followed.  Sm  opened  the  door  into  our  world,  as  a  traitor 
opens  the  gate  of  a  besieged  city,  and  in  rushed  a  host  of  ene- 
mies, to  plunder,  and  enslave,  and  destroy.  Why  is  there  no 
misery  in  heaven  ?  Why  do  angels  never  mourn  over  blighted 
hopes  ?  Why  does  God  never  hide  from  them  the  light  of  his 
countenance  ?  No  one  can  be  at  a  loss  for  the  proper  answer 
to  these  questions.  Perfect  holiness  reigns  in  heaven, — ^in 
the  breast  of  every  angel.  And  were  the  original  holiness  of 
mankind  to  take  immediate  possession  of  every  soul  now  on 
the  earth,  how  would  all  the  happiness  of  paradise  return  as 
in  a  moment.  The  voice  of  sorrow  would  be  heard  no  lon- 
ger.    All  tears  would  be  wiped  away.     Every  heart  would 


SERMON  XI.  375 

beat  continually  with  joyful  emotions.  Every  bosom  would 
be  the  abode  of  peace  that  nothing  could  disturb.  In  all  this 
world  of  immortals,  there  would  be  no  sense  of  any  present 
evil,  and  no  dread  of  any  to  come.  The  curse  would  be  re- 
moved from  the  face  of  nature.  Instead  of  the  thorn  would 
come  up  the  fir  tree  ;  and  instead  of  the  brier  would  come 
up  the  myrtle  tree.  The  mountains  M^ould  break  forth  into 
singing ;  and  the  heavens  and  the  earth  would  rejoice  to- 
gether. This  scene  of  universal  joy  would  be  no  longer  ima- 
ginarj',  were  it  not  for  the  pestilence  of  sin.  A  righteous  God 
keeps  it  from  becoming  real,  only  because  the  subjects  of  his 
moral  government  here  below,  have  all  rebelled  against  him. 
It  is  wholly  in  consequence  of  their  rebellion,  that  he  stretches 
forth  his  hand  to  afflict  them, — to  plant  thorns  and  briers  in 
their  path,  and  give  to  the  winds  their  hopes  of  terrestrial 
happiness. 

But  let  us  pass  to  consider, 

III.  Some  of  his  designs  in  doing  it. 

The  Governor  of  the  universe  does  not  act  in  this  thing 
without  any  design,  nor  without  one  that  is  perfectly  benevo- 
lent. He  does  not  inflict  suffering  on  men,  as  they  often  do 
on  each  other,  from  the  impulse  of  anger,  or  for  the  gratifica- 
tion of  cherished  revenge.  He  has  an  object  beyond  the  suf- 
fering itself;  and  that  object  is  a  good  one.  If  this  could  not 
be  answered,  the  suffering  would  not  be  inflicted.  In  destroy- 
ing the  earthly  hopes  of  men,  the  Divine  Being  has  designs, 
consistent  with  all  his  perfections. 

Among  these,  one  is,  to  exhibit  his  own  holiness.  That  this  is 
an  object  of  infinite  importance  to  the  universe,  must  be  ac- 
knowledged by  all,  who  believe  in  the  moral  government  of 
God.  If  the  character'of  God  be  not  clearly  revealed,  his  crea- 
tures must  be  ignorant  of  the  nature  and  extent  of  their  obliga- 
tons  to  him.  But  how  can  he  fully  exhibit  his  character,  except 
in  what  he  does  ?  Is  it  enough  for  him  to  say,  that  he  is  pos- 
sessed of  every  excellence  ? — to  send  heralds  to  proclaim  it 
through  the  universe  ? — or  give  to  eveiy  race  of  intelligent 
beings  a  book  filled  with  declarations  that  such  is  his  charac- 


376  SERMON    XI. 

ter,  and  with  laws  requiring  them  to  possess  the  same  char- 
acter ?  What  would  be  the  effect  on  them,  if  he  should  assert 
his  own  perfect  holiness,  and  yet  manifest  the  same  tokens  of 
his  favour  to  the  holy  and  to  the  unholy,  and  make  them 
equally  happy?  The  influence  of  motives  would  be  destroyed, 
and  the  moral  government  of  God  at  an  end.  It  may  be  ob- 
jected, that  Christ  commanded  his  disciples,  to  love  their  ene- 
mies and  not  their  friends  only,  that  they  might  be  the  chil- 
dren of  their  heavenly  Father  ;  and  adds,  "  For  he  maketh 
his  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil  and  on  the  good,  and  sendeth  rain 
on  the  just  and  the  unjust."  To  this  it  may  be  answered,  that 
the  atonement  of  Christ,  by  which  the  law  of  God  is  magni- 
fied and  made  honourable,  renders  it  consistent  with  perfect 
holiness,  to  suspend  the  punishment  of  transgressors,  and 
place  them  in  a  state  of  trial,  in  which  by  repentance  and 
faith  and  their  proper  fruits  they  may  be  fitted  for  final  resto- 
ration to  Heaven's  holy  family.  Without  being  the  friend  of 
sin,  therefore,  God  may  bestow  on  the  human  race,  while  in 
this  state  of  trial,  all  the  blessings  necessary  to  their  existence, 
and  a  multitude  more,  to  show  them  his  abundant  mercy,  as 
long  as  there  remains  an  opportunity  for  that  mercy,  to  have 
any  influence  in  melting  their  hearts  in  penitence  or  inspiring 
them  with  gratitude.  But  should  he  visit  them  with  no  judg- 
ments during  their  probation,  they  would  lose  sight  of  his  holi- 
ness. His  judgments  are  calculated  to  keep  it  ever  in  view 
in  living  characters,  and  to  keep  a  strong  sense  of  it  always 
alive  in  the  mind.  So  jealous  is  he  of  the  honour  of  his  name, 
and  so  careful  not  to  deceive  men  in  regard  to  his  true  char- 
acter, that  even  under  the  present  reign  of  mercy,  he  sur- 
rounds them  with  striking  tokens  of  his  justice,  at  every  step 
from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  It  may  be  asked,  how  God 
can  exhibit  his  holiness,  in  afflicting  his  children  with  many 
of  the  same  temporal  evils,  with  which  he  afflicts  his  enemies. 
The  answer  is  to  be  found  in  the  remaining  sins  of  his  chil- 
dren ;  in  chastising  them  for  which,  he  makes  a  clearer  display 
of  his  holiness,  the  greater  his  love  is  to  them.  Thus  fully 
and  constantly  does  God  manifest  his  perfect  holiness,  in  de- 


SERMON    XI.  3"?7 

stroying  the  sublunary  hopes  of  mortals.  He  manifests  it  to 
mortals  themselves,  and  to  the  higher  orders  of  intelligences^ 
the  principalities  and  powers,  that  from  other  worlds  watch 
with  intense  interest,  his  dealings  toward  our  fallen  race. 

Another  design  that  God  has,  in  destroying  the  earthly 
hopes  of  men,  is  to  convince  them  of  sin.  The  display  of  his 
holiness  in  this  destruction  has  a  tendency  to  produce  this  ef- 
fect, by  bringing  him  into  distinct  view,  and  his  character  into 
a  near  comparison  with  their  own.  The  same  effect  is  the 
proper  result  of  the  destruction  itself.  And  though  it  may 
not  be  actually  produced  by  this  cause  alone,  yet  the  natural 
fitness  of  the  cause  to  produce  it  cannot  be  denied.  Nor  can 
it  be  denied,  that  a  state  of  mind  is  often  in  reality  occasion- 
ed, which  is  favourable  to  the  reception  of  divine  truth,  ap- 
plied by  the  convincing  Spirit.  This  fitness  and  this  fact  lead 
us  to  the  design  of  God.  He  afflicts  men,  to  excite  them  to 
inquire  why  he  does  it,  then  to  conduct  them  to  a  second  in- 
quiry respecting  his  character,  and  thence  to  the  conclusion 
that  they  are  transgressors  in  his  sight.  He  sends  judgments 
upon  them,  to  humble  them  under  a  deep  conviction  of  their 
guilt.  He  multiplies  their  sorrows,  to  lead  them  to  see  and 
lament  the  multitude  of  their  offences.  From  the  clouds  of 
adversity  that  often  come  over  them,  from  the  bed  of  sick- 
ness, the  house  of  mourning,  and  the  opening  grave,  he  mer- 
cifully calls  on  them  to  wake  from  the  slumbers  of  unbelief 
and  worldliness.  In  wonderful  mercy  he  wrings  the  human 
heart,  to  produce  the  pangs  of  conscious  guilt,  that  sin  may 
be  hated  and  the  soul  saved.  He  disappoints  our  expectations 
from  the  world,  that  we  may  see  and  renounce  our  idolatrous 
attachment  to  it. 

Another  design  of  God,  in  destroying  the  earthly  hopes  of 
men,  is  to  make  them  sensible  of  their  dependence.  He 
takes  away  their  various  props,  to  let  them  fall  into  his  hands. 
In  the  day  of  their  prosperity,  while  enjoying  a  fulness  of  tem- 
poral good,  they  are  inclined  to  forget  the  Author  of  their 
blessings,  if  not  to  boast  that  their  own  hands  have  procured 

them,  and  indulge  the  exultation  of  pride  in  the  midst  of  their 

48 


378  SERMON  XI. 

abundance.  God  deprives  them  of  these  blessings,  to  teach 
them  humility,  the  hardest  lesson  for  mortals  to  learn.  It 
might  be  urged  upon  us  continually  by  commands  and  exhor- 
tations, and  yet  we  should  go  through  life  ignorant  of  it,  were 
we  not  taught  it  by  afflictions.  Even  the  best  of  men  go 
astray  before  they  are  afflicted  ;  but  afterward  they  walk 
humbly  with  God.  The  trouble  to  which  we  are  born,  spring- 
ing not  from  the  ground,  but  from  the  will  of  our  benevolent 
Maker,  is  calculated  to  convmce  us  of  our  helplessness,  and 
lead  us  to  put  our  whole  trust  in  him.  When  we  feel  the  ir- 
resistible workings  of  disease, — when  we  feel  it  coming  upon 
us  we  know  not  from  what  secondary  cause,  and  operating 
we  know  not  in  what  manner,  to  send  its  thrilling  pangs 
through  our  frame,  and  shake  us  over  the  grave,  we  must  have 
an  atheistical  hardihood  of  soul,  not  to  be  sensible  of  our  en- 
tire dependence  on  the  Almighty  Arbiter  of  life  and  death. 
When  we  stand  by  the  dying  bed  of  a  dear  friend,  and  see  the 
work  of  the  king  of  terrors  going  on,  notwithstanding  all  our 
kind  offices,  and  tears,  and  prayers,  it  is  then  if  ever,  that  we 
feel  powerless  in  the  hands  of  the  Most  High,  and  prostrate 
ourselves  in  the  dust  before  his  throne. 

A  further  design  of  God,  in  destroying  the  earthly  hopes  of 
men,  is  to  lead  them  to  make  him  their  portion.  He  takes 
away  our  idols,  to  assert  his  right  to  our  supreme  affections. 
He  breaks  asunder  the  nearest  ties,  to  remind  us,  that  whoso 
loveth  father  or  mother,  wife  or  child,  more  than  him,  is  not 
worthy  of  him.  He  wounds  our  hearts,  to  bring  us  to  him 
for  the  balm  of  mercy  to  heal  them,  and  for  the  cords  of  love 
to  bind  them  up.  He  causes  us  to  pass  through  the  deep  wa- 
ters of  affliction,  to  constrain  us  to  call  aloud  for  his  support- 
ing hand.  Afflictions  are  his  swift  messengers,  sent  after  us 
in  our  various  wanderings,  to  bring  us  back  to  him.  He  makes 
our  streams  of  earthly  happiness  fail,  to  lead  us  up  to  the  eter- 
nal fountain.  He  brings  a  cloud  over  us,  to  constrain  us  to 
look  to  him  for  light.  He  frowns  upon  us,  to  convince  us  of 
the  value  of  his  smile,  and  induce  us  to  seek  it  as  the  sunshine 
of  the  soul.     Let  those,  therefore,  who  are  walking  in  the 


SERMON  XI. 


379 


darkness  of  affliction,  and  mourning  over  the  ruin  of  earthly 
hopes,  give  all  diligence  to  secure  the  blessings  of  this  benev- 
olent design  of  God.  Let  them  draw  near  to  his  throne  of 
grace,  and  pour  out  their  sorrows  before  his  pitying  eye,  and 
seek  a  refuge  under  the  shadow  of  his  wings.  Let  them  cast 
their  souls  into  his  hands,  and  yield  their  hearts  to  the  full  in- 
fluence of  his  purifying  and  comforting  Spirit.  Let  them  take 
him  for  their  portion,  his  word  for  their  rule  of  life,  his  service 
for  their  employment,  and  his  favour  for  their  everlasting  re- 
ward. Then  shall  light  divine  rise  on  their  darkness  ;  and 
though  weeping  may  endure  for  a  night,  joy,  pure  and  exalted 
joy,  shall  come  in  the  morning. 

A  still  further  design  of  God,  in  destroying  the  earthly 
hopes  of  men,  is  to  lead  them  to  make  heaven  their  home. 
Were  our  path  through  life  always  over  firm  and  smooth 
ground,  covered  with  flowers,  we  should  dance  along  in  the 
giddiness  of  present  pleasure,  and  lose  sight  of  the  eternity 
at  the  end.  We  should  forget  that  we  are  pilgrims  and 
strangers,  having  here  no  continuing  city,  but  passing  quickly 
through  this  wilderness  to  another  country.  Were  there  no 
thorns  on  our  pillow,  we  should  sleep  life  away,  without  any 
labour  for  the  rest  beyond  the  grave.  God  disturbs  ourpeace 
here,  to  draw  our  thoughts  and  desires  to  eternal  peace  here- 
after. He  breaks  our  plans  for  earthly  happiness,  to  fit  us 
for  the  perfect  happiness  of  heaven.  He  follows  us  with  dis- 
appointment after  disappointment,  from  one  year  to  another, 
to  wean  our  affections  from  things  below,  and  fix  them  on 
things  above.  While  in  this  sublunary  vale  we  build  and  re- 
build upon  the  sand,  he  throws  down  again  and  again,  to  lift 
our  thoughts  to  the  skies,  there  to  build  on  everlasting 
rock.  Often  does  he  make  the  earth  appear  to  us  like  a  de- 
sert, that  our  eyes  may  be  raised  with  delight  to  the  glories 
of  heaven,  as  on  the  barren  plains  and  mountains  of  Arabia 
the  wayworn  pilgrim  looks  above  the  desolate  earth,  and  ga- 
zes with  solemn  silent  rapture  on  the  lights  of  the  firmament. 

From  the  view  which  has  now  been  taken  of  this  subject, 
we  are  brought  to  the  following  inferences. 


380  SERMON  XI, 

1.  We  see  the  folly  of  not  profiting  by  the  experience  of 
past  generations. 

If  we  would  receive  instruction  from  the  experience  of  the 
millions  of  our  race,  that  have  sought  a  satisfying  portion  in 
the  world — have  hoped  for  it,  and  planned,  and  laboured, 
and  after  all  died  without  obtaining  it,  how  deep  would  be 
our  conviction  of  the  vanity  of  the  world,  and  how  full  would 
be  our  belief  in  the  happiness  of  having  a  treasure  in  the 
skies.  If  we  would  learn  all  that  can  be  learnt  on  this  sub- 
ject, from  the  history  of  those  of  whom  we  have  read,  and  of 
those  with  whom  we  have  been  acquainted,  what  a  fund  of 
knowledge  should  we  possess,  for  the  regulation  of  our  con- 
duct. Are  not  the  lessons  of  almost  six  thousand  years 
enough,  to  teach  us  the  tnith  respecting  the  road  to  happi- 
ness ?  Are  they  not  enough,  to  show  us  what  it  is  not,  and 
what  it  is  ?  Must  they  then  be  lost  to  us  ?  Must  they  be  bu- 
ried with  the  generations  that  have  gone  down  to  the  grave  ? 
With  ajl  the  instruction  before  us,  which  has  been  accumula- 
ting ever  since  the  fall,  shall  we  be  content  to  be  no  wiser 
than  the  men  of  former  ages  ?  How  sad  the  thought,  that  ev- 
ery generation  as  it  passes  away,  should  carry  with  it  the 
benefit  of  its  own  experience  in  the  pursuit  of  earthly  pleas- 
ures, and  leave  the  next  generation  to  find  out  their  vanity  by 
the  same  fatal  experience.  Why  have  we  not  wisdom  enough, 
to  take  the  results  to  which  men  have  always  been  brought 
in  this  pursuit  in  all  past  ages,  and  regarding  them  as  estab- 
Ushed  truths,  adopt  them  at  once  as  principles  of  moral  ac- 
tion ?  Why  must  we  try  the  world  ourselves,  in  order '  to 
prove  its  vanity  ?  We  never  think  of  making  a  similar  trial,  to 
learn  whether  fire  will  burn  or  water  will  drown.  But  the 
vanity  of  earthly  hopes  is  a  fact  as  well  settled  as  the  power 
of  these  two  elements.  Why  then  do  we  not  act  as  reasona- 
bly in  one  case  as  the  other  1  Is  it  not  the  extreme  of  folly 
in  us,  to  regard  our  situation  as  so  peculiar,  that  we  in  some 
unaccountable  manner  shall  succeed,  where  all  others  have 
failed '!  Where  all  that  have  lived  before  us  have  found  barren- 
ness and  thorns,  we  fondly  expect  to  find  notiiing  but  fruit  and 


SERMON   XI.  381 

flowers.  We  blame  them  for  trusting  so  much  to  the  world 
for  happiness,  and  perhaps  mourn  over  their  disappointment ; 
but,  while  doing  this,  we  imitate  their  conduct,  and  expect  to 
escape  their  misery.  What  reasons  then  have  we  to  give  for 
regarding  ourselves  as  exceptions  in  this  case  ?  We  have 
none  ;  and  is  it  not  the  very  madness  of  folly,  to  act  without 
being  able  to  give  reasons  for  our  conduct  ? 

2.  We  see  the  folly  of  not  forsaking  sin. 

Jn  looking  at  the  progress  of  sin  from  the  fall  of  Adam,  we 
behold  Death  on  his  pale  horse  and  hell  following  in  its  train 
over  the  world.  Or  to  look  back  further  than  the  origin  of 
the  human  family,  we  behold  sin  rolling  its  desolating  tide  over 
a  part  of  heaven,  and  sweeping  a  multitude  of  angels  from 
their  thrones  down  to  the  bottomless  pit.  The  first  sensa- 
tion of  pain  in  the  universe  was  the  effect  of  the  first  act  of 
transgression  ;  and  the  continued  sensations  of  pain  are  the 
effects  of  continued  acts  of  transgression.  To  see  our  earth- 
ly hopes  destroyed  is  to  see  the  ravages  of  sin.  Where  then 
is  our  wisdom,  in  hoping  to  reach  a  state  of  permanent  felici- 
ty, while  walking  in  the  path,  that  has  led  none  to  any  other 
end  but  that  of  despair  ?  Why  should  we  build  and  rebuild, 
and  yet  cherish  an  enemy  to  throw  down  without  mercy  the 
works  of  our  hands  ?  Why  should  we  look  for  a  life  of  peace 
and  safety,  while  we  nurse  a  scorpion  to  sting  and  to  poison 
unto  death  ?  Why  should  we  put  far  away  the  thought  of 
destruction,  and  yet  open  our  door  to  let  in  the  pestilence  ? 

3.  We  see  the  folly  of  not  embracing  the  religion  of  Christ. 
In  this  religion  there  is  a  remedy,  and  the  only  remedy,  for 

every  kind  and  degree  of  evil.  To  reject  it,  is  to  shut  our 
eyes  against  the  light,  shining  from  heaven,  to  guide  us  through 
the  darkness  of  this  world.  It  is  to  shut  our  ears  against 
the  voice  from  heaven,  calling  us  from  the  paths  of  the  de- 
stroyer into  the  way  of  life.  It  is  to  put  from  us  the  hand, 
that  offers  to  us  the  balm  of  mercy,  and  the  cords  of  love,  to 
heal  our  broken  hearts,  and  bind  up  all  their  wounds.  It  is  to 
spurn  from  us  the  hand,  that  is  stretched  forth,  to  blot  out  our 
iniquities,  and  wipe  away  our  tears,  and  sustain  us  under  the 


382  SERMON    XI. 

weight  of  earthly  trials,  and  raise  us  above  the  ruin  of  earthly 
hopes,  and  take  us  up  to  the  dwelling-place  of  all  pure  and 
happy  spirits,  there  to  set  crowns  of  glory  on  our  heads,  and 
and  give  us  to  drink  of  the  river  of  immortality.  In  the  midst 
of  our  earthly  disappointments  the  gospel  comes  to  us,  and 
reveals  to  the  eye  of  faith  the  things  of  a  better  world,  to  ex- 
cite within  us  higher  hopes  than  those  that  are  fixed  on  the 
vanities  of  earth.  The  gospel  assures  the  believer  that 
"  these  light  afflictions  which  are  but  for  a  moment,  work  for 
us  a  far  more  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory."  Thus 
does  it  bring  from  eternity  a  light  to  scatter  the  gloom  of 
time.  It  makes  us  happy  here,  with  the  hope  of  immeasura- 
ble and  unending  happiness  hereafter.  O  then  reject  not  the 
gospel,  if  you  would  not  wrong  your  own  souls  in  this  life, 
and  ruin  them  in  the  life  to  come.  Reject  not  the  religion  of 
Christ,  if  you  would  not  spend  eternity  in  lamenting  your  fol- 
ly. Embrace  this  religion,  and  though  weeping  may  endure 
for  a  night,  the  dark  night  of  time,  joy  will  come  in  the  morn- 
ing, the  bright  morning  of  eternity.  Embrace  it  and  build 
your  hopes  upon  it  ;  and  you  shall  not  have  to  mourn  at 
death  and  say  "  my  days  are  past,  my  purposes  are  broken 
off,  even  the  thoughts  of  my  heart." — Where  is  your  hope  7 
You  will  know  where  it  is.  Instead  of  being  torn  from  it, 
and  from  a  world  where  it  was  built  on  the  sand,  you  will 
be  carried  to  it,  and  to  the  world  where  it  was  built  on  the 
Rock  of  Ages.  Who  shall  see  your  hope  ?  The  general  as- 
sembly and  church  of  the  first  born  shall  see  it ;  the  innum- 
erable company  of  angels  shall  see  it ;  the  admiring  universe 
shall  see  it ;  and  the  blessed  vision  of  it  shall  burst  upon  your 
own  eyes,  and  fill  your  souls  with  all  the  fulness  of  God  for- 
ever.    Amen. 


SERMON  XII. 


HEBREWS,  xi.  1. 
"  Faith  is  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for,  and  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen." 

The  word  "  faith"  is  used  by  the  sacred  writers  with  some 
variety  of  signification. 

When  Christ  said  to  his  disciples,  If  ye  have  faith  as  a 
grain  of  mustard  seed,  ye  shall  say  to  this  mountain,  Remove 
hence  to  yonder  place,  and  it  shall  remove, — he  did  not 
mean  to  imply  that  they  had  not  the  smallest  degree  of  the 
faith  which  is  necessary  to  salvation,  for  they  were  really  in 
a  state  of  salvation  ;  but  he  meant  that  they  had  none  of  that 
miraculous  faith,  w^hich  was  a  gift  peculiar  to  the  age.  When 
St.  James  says  that  faith  without  works  is  dead — that  the  dev- 
ils believe  and  tremble,  he  must  refer  to  an  historical  or  spec- 
ulative faith,  which  is  the  bare  assent  of  the  understanding  to 
the  existence  of  truth  ; — for  the  belief  of  the  heart  is  unto 
righteousness,  and  is  known  by  its  fruits.  When,  therefore, 
it  is  said,  Believe  and  thou  shalt  be  saved,  a  kind  of  faith  dif- 
ferent from  either  of  these  must  be  intended.  The  difference 
between  the  faith  of  the  intellect  and  that  of  the  affections  is 
often  apparently  marked  in  the  sacred  volume  by  a  slight 
difference  of  language.  When  the  former  is  spoken  of,  the 
word  believe  almost  always  immediately  precedes  the  word 
expressing  the  object  of  belief. — "  If  ye  believe  not  his  writ- 
ings how  shall  ye  believe  my  words  ?" — that  is,  regard  them 
as  true.  On  the  contrary  when  the  latter  is  spoken  of,  the 
particle  or  or  in  generally  occurs  between  the  word  believe 
and  the  object  of  faith. — "  How  can  they  believe  in  him  of 
whom  they  have  not  heard  ?"    "  Believe  on  the  Lord  Jesus 


384  SERMON    XII. 

Christ,  and  thou  shalt  be  saved" — that  is,  trust  in  him,  rely 
on  him.  The  faith  that  justifies  and  saves  is  a  cordial  and 
entire  rehance,  upon  the  atonement  and  righteousness  of 
Christ — a  receiving  of  Christ  into  the  soul,  in  all  his  offices  as 
revealed  in  the  scriptures. 

Saving  faith  appears  in  various  exercises,  according  to  the 
various  objects  in  view  of  which  it  is  exercised.  That  faith 
which  is  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for  and  the  evidence 
of  things  not  seen,  is  a  particular  exercise  of  saving  faith  ; — is 
included  in  it  as  a  part  in  the  whole. — There  is,  indeed,  an 
exercise  of  speculative  faith  corresponding  to  this  exercise  of 
saving  faith.  A  man  may  have  a  kind  of  belief  in  things 
hoped  for  and  things  not  seen,  without  being  governed  by 
them,  as  easily  as  he  can  have  a  kind  of  belief  in  Christ  with- 
out embracing  him  as  the  only  Saviour,  and  obeying  him  as 
the  Supreme  Lawgiver. 

But  the  faith  intended  in  the  text  is  genuine  ;  for  it  is  that 
without  which,  as  it  is  said  in  the  context,  it  is  impossible  to 
please  God, — and  to  illustrate  which  by  its  effects,  a  long 
catalogue  of  eminent  saints  is  introduced. 

The  object  of  the  present  discourse  is  to  consider  the  na- 
ture, the  reasonableness  and  the  effects  of  faith  in  the  invisible 
things  of  religion. 

I.  The  nature  of  this  faith. 

Faith  is  the  substance,  [or  subsistence,]  of  things  hoped  for 
and  the  evidence,  [or,  according  to  the  strong  meaning  of  the 
original  word,  the  demonstration,]  of  things  not  seen. 

That  is,  faith  in  its  full  exercise  regards  the  future,  and  un- 
seen things  of  revelation  as  though  they  were  really  present 
and  visible  ;  and  allows  them  the  same  influence  upon  the 
temper  and  conduct. 

The  first  part  of  the  passage  respects  future  good  only  ;  for 
nothing  else  can  be  the  object  of  hope. 

The  latter  part  is  more  general.     "  Things  unseen"  include 
all  the  objects  of  revelation,  that  lie  beyond  the  reach  of  our 
senses.     They  embrace  those  examples  in  the  catalogue  sub 
joined  to  the  text,  which  have  no  concern  with  "  things  hoped 


SERMON  XII. 


385 


for" — such  as  the  creation  of  the  world,  and  its  destruction 
by  a  flood.  Noah,  being  warned  of  God,  of  things  not  seen 
as  yet,  was  moved  with/e«r  to  prepare  an  ark. 

The  meaning  of  the  text,  then,  taken  as  a  whole,  may  be 
thus  expressed — Faith  is  a  full  assurance  of  the  reality  of  all 
the  invisible  objects  pertaining  to  religion,  so  clear  and  firm  as 
to  produce  the  same  effect,  as  if  they  were  before  the  eyes 
in  a  visible,  substantial  form.  A  man  needs  only  to  glance  at 
the  lives  of  that  family  of  the  faithful  arranged  under  the  text, 
to  be  convinced  that  the  idea  of  effect  enters  into  the  very  na- 
ture of  this  faith.  It  does  not  deserve  the  name  of  faith  with- 
out it.  It  is  a  living  principle,  that  reigns  in  the  heart,  flows 
out  in  the  life  and  overcomes  the  world. 

It  is  no  shadow — no  dream  of  a  bewildered  imagination  ; 
but  a  sober,  thorough  conviction  of  the  judgment,  the  con- 
science, and  the  heart, — founded  upon  infallible  evidence  and 
wrought  in  the  soul  by  the  Spirit  of  God. 

No  such  monuments,  as  these  erected  to  the  honor  of  faith 
in  the  achievements  of  her  worthies,  could  be  built  upon  a 
visionary  foundation.     But  to  be  more  particular. 

We  are  the  creatures  of  sense — surrounded  by  sensible  ob- 
jects. We  acquire  oar  ideas  of  these  objects,  either  directly 
or  indirectly,  through  the  medium  of  our  external  senses  ;  and 
we  are  inclined  to  believe  in  their  existence,  upon  the  evi- 
dence of  our  senses,  rather  than  any  other.  Though  there 
may  be  other  evidence  as  conclusive  in  the  amount,  yet  noth- 
ing seems  to  satisfy  us  like  this — we  have  seen  with  our  own 
eyes — we  have  heard  with  our  own  ears.  Thus  when  we 
are  called  upon  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  an  invisible  ob- 
ject, we  are  inclined  to  turn  instinctively  to  the  same  source 
for  evidence, — as  is  often  the  case  in  children  with  respect  to 
the  existence  of  God  ;  and  when  reason  forbids  us  to  expect 
such  evidence,  we  are  inclined  to  supply  its  place  as  nearly  as 
possible  by  imaginary  forms. 

This  inclination  is  kept  alive,  by  the  constant  use  which  we 
are  obliged  to  make  of  the  same  language  in  speaking  of  in- 
visible objects,  as  in  speaking  of  those  that  are  visible. 

49 


386  SERMON  XII. 

Thus  in  speaking  of  God,  whom  no  mortal  eye  hath  seen, 
or  can  see  and  live,  we  use  language  borrowed  from  the  form 
and  properties  of  man,  which  inclines  us  to  figure  to  ourselves 
an  imaginary  being  similar  to  man. 

When  we  speak  of  Heaven  as  the  dwelling-place  of  the 
Most  High — of  his  being  seated  there  upon  a  throne,  we  may 
imagine  that  in  some  region  of  ineffable  brightness  and  beau- 
ty, above  these  visible  skies — somewhere  amid  suns  and  sys- 
tems, one  like  the  sovereigns  of  earth  sits  upon  a  similar  throne, 
surrounded  with  similar  ensigns  of  power  and  royalty — not 
considering  that  God  is  a  Spirit,  whom  the  heaven  of  heavens 
cannot  contain.  And  it  may  be  supposed  by  some,  that  it  is 
thus  we  are  to  set  the  Lord  always  before  our  eyes — and  live 
as  seeing  him  who  is  invisible. 

We  may  imagine  a  beautiful  person  with  open  arms  and  a 
benign  countenance,  beckoning  and  beseeching  us  by  the 
sight  of  his  bleeding  hands  and  side,  to  come  and  embrace 
him — and  this  may  be  called  a  glimpse  of  the  love  of  Christ 
by  an  eye  of  faith — believing  on  him  whom  we  have  not 
seen. 

We  may  imagine  a  city  with  foundations  of  precious  stones, 
and  streets  of  gold,  and  gates  of  pearl — filled  with  an  innu- 
merable company  of  happy  spirits  arrayed  in  white,  with 
palms,  and  harps,  and  crowns — and  then  call  this  an  exercise 
of  that  faith  which  gives  substance  to  things  hoped  for. 

To  let  our  fancy  wander  through  an  ideal  paradise,  filled 
with  every  thing  that  can  regale  the  senses,  may  be  thought 
the  same  thing  as  to  have  our  conversation  in  Heaven. 

We  may  imagine  a  bottomless  pit,  filled  with  all  the  horrid 
images  of  that  prison  of  despair — and  call  this  that  faith 
which  keeps  eternal  things  in  view. 

I  do  not  mean  that  this  vivid  conception  of  invisible  objects 
is  never  found  where  there  is  true  faith.  It  frequently  ac- 
companies it,  and  when  not  employed  upon  God  himself, 
may  sometimes  strengthen  it,  if  the  foundation  of  the  faith 
itself  be  something  more  solid.     That  it  should  is  agreeable 


SERMON  XII.  387 

to  our  nature,  and  to  Divine  wisdom,  as  appears  from  the  lan- 
guage and  whole  tenor  of  the  Bible. 

But  what  I  mean  is — that  the  liveliest  conception  of  things 
unseen  is  not  faith  itself — is  no  part  of  it--no  exercise  of  it. 
It  may  exist  where  there  is  no  spiritual  discernment — no 
heart-felt  conviction — not  a  spark  of  that  faith,  which  is  the 
substance  of  things  hoped  for,  and  the  evidence  of  things  not 
seen. 

The  imagination  may  be  awake,  or  it  may  be  asleep,  while 
the  child  of  God  is  in  the  exercise  of  a  genuine  and  lively  faith 
in  invisible  things. 

It  may  be  awake.  This  is  often  the  fact  for  some  time 
after  old  things  have  passed  away,  and  all  things  have  be- 
come new  to  the  regenerated  soul. 

It  may  be  asleep.  This  is  often  the  fact  in  the  established 
saint — one  whose  contemplations  on  invisible  eternal  things 
have  long  been  so  familiar,  as  to  have  acquired  a  consistency 
of  meaning  without  being  embodied  into  imaginary  represen- 
tations on  which  to  fix. 

He  can  now  exercise  faith  in  Christ,  and  come  to  him  in  the 
spiritual  sense  of  scripture,  without  any  thing  like  an  image 
before  the  mind ;  and  though  now  he  see  him  not,  yet  be- 
lieving in  liim,  he  can  rejoice  with  joy  unspeakable  and  full  of 
glory. 

He  has  been  so  long  accustomed,  upon  the  testimony  of 
him  who  cannot  lie,  to  regard  the  state  and  the  abode  of  the 
righteous  after  death  as  unspeakably  happy  and  glorious,  that 
the  bare  mention  of  Heaven  without  any  allusion  to  sensible 
objects,  may  awaken  the  strongest  desires,  and  rouse  to  the 
most  vigorous  action.  His  faith  has  become  emphatically 
spiritual,  and  yet  so  consistent  and  steadfast  that  he  rests  his 
all  upon  it,  and  is  at  peace. 

Though  his  imagination  may  no  more  attempt  to  conceive 
the  things  that  are  prepared  for  him  in  Heaven, — still  know- 
ing whom  he  has  believed,  he  is  as  fully  satisfied,  as  confident 
of  their  reality,  as  if  they  were  in  actual  sight,  and  actual  pos- 
session. 


388  SERMON    XII. 

Blessed  indeed  is  the  man  with  such  a  prospect  of  Hea- 
ven— for  flesh  and  blood  have  not  revealed  it  unto  him,  but 
the  Father  who  is  in  Heaven. 

This  is  solid,  spiritual,  eftectual  faith — that  faith  which  is 
the  subsistence  of  things  hoped  for,  and  the  demonstration  of 
things  not  seen.  It  is  a  serious,  thorough  conviction  of  the 
judgment,  which  the  conscience  approves,  and  the  heart  em- 
braces ;  .and  is  wrought  in  the  soul  by  the  Spirit  of  God. 

We  are  to  consider, 

II.  The  reasonableness  of  this  faith.     It  is  reasonable, 

1.  Because  it  is  founded  upon  evidence. 

Skeptics  have  treated  the  idea  of  such  a  faith  with  con- 
tempt ;  and  ridiculed  its  possessors  as  pitiable  visionaries, 
who  trust  in  a  phantom.  They  believe,  they  know  not  what, 
but  their  belief  makes  it  true — say  they  with  an  air  of  tri- 
umph. We  know  what  we  believe  is  our  reply  ;  and  our  be- 
lief is  reasonable,  for  it  is  founded  upon  evidence.  They 
pronounce  it  impossible  for  a  man  in  the  exercise  of  a  sound 
understanding,  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  God  while  invis- 
ible, as  really  and  fully  as  if  he  were  visible.  But  if  the  ex- 
istence of  God  while  invisible  be  as  certain  as  if  he  were  vis- 
ible, it  is  not  only  possible,  but  reasonable  that  our  belief 
should  be  as  certain. 

The  evidence  in  support  of  the  Divine  existence  amounts 
to  absolute  demonstration.  If  God  were  visible  it  could 
amount  to  no  more.  The  invisible  things  of  God  are  clearly 
seen,  being  understood  by  the  things  that  are  made — for 
things  that  are  made  must  have  a  maker. 

A  visible  appearance  of  the  Godhead,  therefore,  could  not 
make  his  existence  moi'e  evident  than  it  now  is.  As  much 
as  this  is  rendered  probable  by  the  effect  of  those  few  occur- 
rences in  nature,  which  seem  to  approach  the  nearest  to  such 
a  visible  appearance.  The  thunder  and  earthquake  seem  to 
speak  a  present  God  in  plainer  language,  than  many  other 
events,  which  are  really  exhibitions  of  equal  power,  because 
their  recurrence  is  less  frequent,  and  their  instrumental  cause 
less  obvious. 


SERMON  XII.  389 

But,  though  they  strike  the  senses  more  strongly  at  first, 
they  do  not  render  the  Divine  existence  more  necessary  and 
evident,  than  the  growing  harvest  and  the  flowing  stream. 

If  we  had  seen  the  sun  rise  this  morning  for  the  first  time, 
it  would  have  struck  instantaneous  conviction  of  the  exist- 
ence of  an  unseen  Almighty  hand,  while  we  were  trembling 
with  the  expectation  of  seeing  it  followed  as  a  forerunner,  by 
some  yet  more  visible  display  of  the  Godhead  breaking  forth 
from  the  hiding-place  of  his  glory  :  but  the  rising  of  the  sun 
this  morning  was  really  the  same  thing  as  its  first  rising  ;  and 
consequently  the  evidence  of  the  Divine  existence  is  the  same 
that  it  was  on  the  first  morning  of  time. 

It  is  reasonable  then,  that  our  belief  should  be  as  firm  as  it 
would  have  been,  had  we  been  present  with  rejoicing  angels 
at  the  creation  of  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  and  had  heard 
the  Almighty  command  "  Let  there  be  light."  And  I  repeat 
it,  if  we  had  seen  God  himself  with  our  bodily  eyes,  such  a 
sight,  though  it  might  overwhelm  our  senses,  could  not  make 
his  existence  more  evident  than  it  now  is,  in  the  view  of  so- 
ber, candid  reason — could  add  nothing  to  the  evidence  upon 
which  a  reasonable  faith  is  founded.  Moses  had  no  more  ev- 
idence of  the  Divine  existence,  after  having  been  upon  Mount 
Sinai,  and  conversed  with  God  forty  days  by  an  audible  voice, 
than  he  had  before — and  his  faith  was  the  same  as  before,  and 
the  fruits  of  his  faith  in  his  life  were  essentially  the  same. 

It  is  then  possible  and  reasonable  to  believe  in  an  invisible 
God,  whose  existence  cannot  be  otherwise  than  certain,  as 
really  and  firmly  as  if  he  were  visible. 

And  it  is  further  possible  and  reasonable,  in  virtue  of  this 
belief,  to  exercise  love  towards  him,  as  readily  as  if  he  were 
visible. 

What  is  it  that  we  love  in  our  friend  ?  Is  it  any  thing  which 
we  see  in  form  or  feature  ?  or  is  it  the  secret  soul  within  ? 
We  may  indeed  behold  expressions  of  his  lovely  qualities  in 
his  countenance,  but  these  attract  us  only  as  they  indicate 
the  character  of  the  soul  which  we  love. 

And  so  the  child  of  God  beholds  expressions  of  intelligence 


390 


SERMON    XII. 


and  benevolence  in  the  face  of  the  earth  and  heavens ;  but 
they  only  lead  him  to  love  that  Eternal  Spirit,  v^^ho  operates 
unseen  and  animates  the  whole. 

That  faith  which  is  the  subsistence  of  things  hoped  for,  and 
the  demonsti-ation  of  things  not  seen,  so  far  as  it  relates  to 
those  invisible  objects  which  God  has  revealed,  is  also  possi- 
ble and  reasonable,  for  it  is  founded  upon  the  evidence  of  in- 
fallible testimony — even  the  sure  word  of  him  who  cannot 
lie.  Is  it  not  possible  and  reasonable  for  an  American,  who 
never  crossed  the  ocean,  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  such 
a  country  as  England  or  India,  as  really  and  firmly  as  if  he 
had  seen  it?  And  is  it  not  possible  and  reasonable  for  a 
man  who  has  never  crossed  the  Jordan  of  death  to  believe  in 
the  existence  of  a  heavenly  Canaan,  as  really  and  firmly  as  if 
he  had  seen  it  ? 

The  merchant  does  not  maintain  a  commerce  for  fifty 
years  with  a  country  whose  existence  is  a  mere  matter  of 
opinion  with  him,  and  not  of  absolute  belief.  No — he  be- 
lieves its  existence  as  positively  and  firmly  as  he  could  if  he 
had  seen  it  a  thousand  times ;  and  he  would  never  think  of 
saying  upon  the  first  sight  of  it — Now  I  am  satisfied  of  its  ex- 
istence. His  beUef  is  founded  upon  the  testimony  of  his  fel- 
low-men. The  Christian's  belief  in  the  existence  of  a  hea- 
venly country,  is  founded  upon  the  testimony  of  God. 

The  merchant's  belief  is  beyond  all  dispute,  and  has  never 
been  disturbed  for  a  moment  by  the  least  shadow  of  a  doubt. 
And  it  is  perfectly  reasonable ;  for  it  is  founded  upon  testi- 
mony which  is  morally  certain  ; — which  however,  if  we  were 
disposed  to  meet  the  skeptic  in  his  own  way,  we  might  at- 
tempt to  weaken,  by  calling  it  the  testimony  of  creatures  who 
are  all  liable  to  mistake  and  full  of  deception — while  the  tes- 
timony of  Christ,  who  came  from  Heaven — proved  that  he 
did,  by  the  nature  of  his  errand,  by  his  miracles,  his  own 
character,  and  the  character  of  his  gospel,  is  the  testimony  of 
one  who  spake  as  never  man  spake — one  who  was  infallible 
in  knowledge,  and  who  was  truth  itself.  And  must  one  who 
believes  in  the  existence  of  a  country  wliich  he  never  saw,  so 


SERMON    XII.  39i 

confidently  as  to  govern  all  his  plans,  and  risk  all  his  worldly 
interests  in  virtue  of  such  a  belief,  as  promptly  as  if  it  were 
founded  upon  actual  sight,  be  pronounced  perfectly  reasona- 
ble— while  another  who  believes  in  the  existence  of  an  invis- 
ible Heaven,  so  confidently  as  to  govern  all  his  plans,  and  risk 
his  eternal  interests  in  virtue  of  such  a  belief,  as  promptly  as 
if  it  were  founded  upon  actual  sight,  is  pronounced  unreason- 
able ? 

Has  the  child  of  God,  then,  no  reason  to  give  for  his  faith, 
as  well  as  his  hope  ?  Is  he  who  walks  by  faith  and  not  by 
sight  a  visionary  ?  Is  he  not  rather  the  only  man  who  grasps 
at  real  substance  1  And  is  not  his  faith  the  only  belief  that 
deserves  to  be  called  reasonable  ? 

If  we  will  not  believe  in  the  invisible  realities  of  eternity 
upon  infallible  testimony — if  we  will  not  believe  Moses  and 
the  Prophets,  the  Apostles  and  the  Son  of  God  himself,  nei- 
ther should  we  be  persuaded,  though  one  arose  from  the  dead, 
and  appeared  to  our  mortal  eyes — Though  liazarus  should 
come  down  from  his  celestial  seat,  clad  in  the  habiliments  of 
light — or  the  rich  man  rise  from  his  place  of  torment  with 
the  dark  appalling  countenance  of  a  fiend — though  all  heaven 
were  opened  to  our  view,  and  we  lived  and  acted  all  the 
while  beneath  a  transparent  sky  through  which  all  the  glories 
of  the  upper  world,  from  the  throne  in  the  centre  to  its  ut- 
most boundaries  were  distinctly  visible,  and  the  eyes  of  every 
being  there  were  seen  fixed  upon  us,  and  followed  us  in  all 
our  movements — though  hell  itself  were  naked  before  us,  and 
destruction  were  stript  of  her  covering. 

Faith  in  things  future  and  unseen,  which  are  objects  of 
promise  or  threatening,  is  reasonable, 

2.  Because  it  is  founded  upon  the  immutable  perfections 
of  God. 

This  idea  has  been  partially  anticipated,  or  rather  implied ; 
in  as  much  as  it  is  the  ground  of  that  infallibility  of  testimony, 
upon  which  rests  the  truth  of  all  the  invisible  objects  of  reve- 
lation except  the  Divine  existence  itself ; — but  its  importance 
demands  a  distinct  consideration. 


392  SERMON    XII. 

All  the  attributes  of  God  are  engaged  to  perform  his  word 
— whether  it  be  a  promise  or  a  threatening — whether  it  be  to 
save,  or  to  destroy — to  plant  and  build,  or  pluck  up  and  pull 
down.  But  his  power  and  veracity  are  conspicuous,  and 
therefore  claim  more  particular  attention. 

If  God  is  both  able  and  faithful  to  perform  his  word,  the 
foundation  of  the  believer's  faith  standeth  sure — and  the  in- 
ference follows  that  it  is  reasonable. 

In  proof  of  the  power  and  faithfulness  of  God,  in  perform- 
ing his  word,  we  are  compassed  about  with  a  great  cloud  of 
witnesses.  The  apostle  begins  with  the  creation,  proceeds 
onward  through  a  long  line  of  patriarchs  and  prophets,  and 
rising  with  the  inspiration  of  his  theme,  is  borne  along  from 
example  to  example,  until  time  fails  and  he  is  obliged  to  fill 
up  at  once  the  chasm  from  David  to  his  own  day,  with  a  flood 
of  wonders  that  were  wrought,  and  sufferings  that  were  en- 
dured. In  all  these  examples  the  effects  of  faith  are  not 
more  manifest,  than  are  the  power  and  faithfulness  of  a  cov- 
enant-keeping God. 

I  shall  notice  two  or  three  examples,  in  which  the  most 
imphcit  confidence  in  the  word  of  God  was  not  in  the  least 
degree  disappointed. 

The  faith  of  Noah  was  exercised  in  view  of  promises  and 
threatenings — promises  to  himself  and  family,  and  threatenings 
to  an  ungodly  world.  By  faith,  Noali,  being  warned  of  God, 
of  things  not  seen  as  yet,  moved  with  fear,  prepared  an  ark  to 
the  saving  of  his  house. 

When  God  saw  that  the  wickedness  of  man  was  great  in 
the  earth,  and  that  every  imagination  of  the  thoughts  of  his 
heart  was  only  evil  continually,  he  said  to  Noah,  who  alone 
had  found  grace  in  his  eyes — The  end  of  all  flesh  is  come  ; 
behold  I,  even  I,  do  bring  a  flood  of  waters  upon  the  earth, 
to  destroy  all  flesh,  wherein  is  the  breath  of  life,  from  under 
heaven  ;  and  every  living  thing  that  is  in  the  earth  shall  die  ;  • 
but  with  thee  will  I  establish  my  covenant.  He  commanded 
him  to  build  an  ark  for  the  saving  of  himself  and  his  house- 


SERMON  XII.  393 

hold.     And  thus  did  Noah,  according  to  all  that  God  com- 
manded him,  so  did  he. 

Had  his  faith  been  less  than  implicit,  and  less  than  the  de- 
monstration of  things  not  seen,  he  might  have  raised  a  thou- 
sand scruples  respecting  the  certainty  of  such  an  event  as  God 
had  predicted,  and  the  practicability  of  such  an  undertaking 
as  God  had  commanded.  Who  hath  seen  such  a  thing  ? 
Who  hath  heard  such  a  thing  ?  How  shall  the  beasts  of  the 
field  be  assembled  from  their  dispersion,  two  by  two  into  the 
ark,  and  the  fowls  of  the  air  collected  from  the  four  winds  ? 
Will  not  the  flood  leave  us  still  a  refuge  in  the  highest  moun- 
tains ? 

But  no — thus  did  Noah  ;  according  to  all  that  the  Lord 
commanded,  so  did  he — without  saying  a  word.  The  Lord 
hath  spoken,  was  enough  for  him.  He  seems  not  to  have 
thought  of  looking  beyond  this  for  evidence — or  of  starting 
any  objection  to  it  from  the  region  of  improbabilities  and  im- 
possibilities ;  believing  with  his  whole  heart  that  all  things 
are  possible  with  God,  and  though  earth  and  heaven  also  pass 
away,  his  word  should  not  pass  away. 

He  showed  by  his  conduct,  that  his  faith  was  as  full  and 
firm,  as  if  he  already  saw  the  heavens  opening,  and  the  tor- 
rents descending — the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  breaking 
up,  and  the  waters  rushing  in  upon  every  side.  The  event 
proved  that  his  faith  was  reasonable — but  what  became  of  an 
unbelieving  world  ? 

The  history  of  Abraham's  faith  is  still  more  remarkable. 
The  Lord  said  unto  Abraham — Up,  get  thee  out  of  thy  coun- 
try, and  from  thy  kindred,  and  from  thy  father's  house,  unto  a 
land  that  I  will  show  thee  :  and  I  will  make  thy  name  great — 
will  make  of  thee  a  great  nation,  and  will  bless  thee. 

Once  satisfied  that  this  was  the  voice  of  God,  he  arose,  and 
without  questioning  the  reasonableness  of  obeying  such  a 
command,  or  trusting  such  a  promise,  went  immediately  out, 
not  knowing  whither  he  went.  And  was  he  following  a 
phantom,  in  thus  submitting  to  be  guided  by  an  unseen  hand  ? 

50 


394 


SERMON  XII. 


Was  it  unreasonable  to  be  thus  led  by  the  Spirit  of  God  ? 
Let  the  sequel  answer  this  question. 

But  the  severest  trial  of  his  faith  was  yet  to  come.  The 
tender  father  is  commanded  to  take  his  son,  his  only  son 
Isaac,  whom  he  loved,  the  very  child  given  according  to  the 
promise  of  Heaven,  and  in  whose  single  person  the  existence 
of  the  great  nation  of  descendants  promised  to  him,  and  I 
may  add,  the  veracity  of  his  God,  were  at  stake,  in  the  sight 
of  an  unbelieving  world — the  child  of  all  his  hopes  and  pray- 
ers— the  child  of  his  fond  old  age — he  is  commanded  to  take 
this  object  of  interest  so  exclusive — to  tear  him  away  from  ties 
so  endearing  and  prospects  so  bright, — and  under  the  collected 
weight  of  all  these  circumstances  lead  him  off  alone  to  a  dis- 
tant mountain,  and  there,  on  the  altar  of  blood  and  burning 
sacrifice,  with  his  own  hands — take  the  life  which  in  any  oth- 
er situation  he  should  have  preserved  at  the  risk  of  his  own. 
How  many  objections  might  a  weak  faith  have  raised  against 
obeying  such  a  command.  Its  nature,  and  object — could  it 
come  from  the  eternal  Father  of  mercies  ?  How  long  might 
a  weak  faith  have  found  some  pretence  for  waiting  to  be  sat- 
isfied again  and  again,  that  such  was  in  reality  the  command 
of  Him  whose  goodness  is  infinite  and  everlasting. 

But  no  such  weakness  of  faith  appeared  in  the  father  of 
the  faithful.  Without  a  doubt  or  a  murmur  he  bowed  his 
head  in  silence  at  the  well  known  voice  of  the  Lord,  and 
then  departed  with  that  lamb  by  his  side  whose  unsuspecting 
dutifulness  must  have  stung  him  to  the  heart,  while  they  went 
both  of  them  together,  with  the  wood,  the  fire  and  the  knife, 
all  that  mournful  way  to  the  place  appointed  for  the  unexam- 
pled sacrifice. 

"  By  faith  Abraham,  when  he  was  tried,  offered  up  Isaac  ; 
and  he  that  had  received  the  promises  oflfered  up  his  only  be- 
gotten son,  of  whom  it  was  said,  That  in  Isaac  shall  thy  seed 
be  called  ;  accounting  that  God  was  able  to  raise  him  up  even 
from  the  dead." 

Faithful  is  he  that  hath  promised,  was  all  in  all  to  the  holy 
patriarch,     *'He  staggered  not  at  the  promise  through  unbe- 


SERMON    XII. 


395 


lief,  but  was  strong  in  faith,  giving  glory  to  God,  being  fully 
persuaded  that  what  he  had  promised,  he  was  able  also  to 
perform."  And  he  did  perform  it.  He  did  give  his  seed  the 
land  of  Canaan  for  an  inheritance — he  did  multiply  them  as 
the  stars  of  the  sky,  and  as  the  sands  by  the  sea-shore  innum- 
erable. 

God  has  ever  showed  himself  to  be  a  faithful  God,  who 
keepeth  covenant  and  mercy  to  a  thousand  generations.  The 
bow  in  the  cloud  is  a  witness  for  him.  Seed-time  and  har- 
vest, summer  and  winter,  day  and  night,  are  perpetual  witness- 
es. As  God  is  the  same,  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever, — his 
power  and  veracity  are  as  much  engaged  for  the  perform- 
ance of  all  his  promises  and  threatenings,  as  they  were  for 
the  performance  of  those  which  we  have  contemplated. 
Their  performance  then  is  as  certain,  and  consequently  our 
faith  in  view  of  them  should  be  as  firm  and  effectual.  God 
hath  appointed  a  day  of  judgment.  And  the  language  of  un- 
belief is — "  where  is  the  promise  of  his  coming  ?"  for  since 
the  fathers  fell  asleep  all  things  continue  as  they  were  from 
the  creation — The  sun  rises  and  sets  ; — the  moon  and  stars 
withdraw  not  their  shining — the  seasons  hold  on  their  course 
uninterrupted.  The  heavens  are  calm  over  our  heads,  and 
the  earth  is  steadfast  under  our  feet  : — We  see  nothing  of 
danger,  we  hear  nothing.  But  God  destroyed  the  world  by  a 
flood  according  to  his  threatening  ;  and  he  will  as  surely  de- 
stroy it  by  fire  according  to  his  threatening. — He  saved  Noah 
and  his  family,  according  to  his  promise, — and  he  will  save  all 
that  flee  into  the  Christian's  ark  of  mercy  according  to  his 
promise.  He  gave  the  land  of  Canaan  to  the  seed  of  Abra- 
ham, according  to  his  promise — and  he  will  give  to  his  Son 
the  heathen  for  an  inheritance,  and  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
earth  for  a  possession — and  he  will  give  to  all  his  children  an 
inheritance  incorruptible,  undefiled,  that  fadeth  not  away. 

If  then  that  faith  which  is  the  subsistence  of  things  hoped 
for,  and  the  demonstration  of  things  not  seen,  was  reasona- 
ble in  Noah  and  Abraham,  as  the  event  abundantly  proves, 
the  same  in  Christians  now  with  respect  to  things  still  future 


396 


SERMON  XII. 


and  unseen,  is  also  reasonable, — for  it  is  founded  upon  the 
same  immutable  perfections  of  God. 

We  come  now  to  consider, 

III.  The  effects  of  this  faith. 

These  effects  are  numerous  and  great  ;  but  they  are  all  ex- 
pressed in  one  sentence  from  St.  John — "  This  is  the  victory 
that  overcometh  the  world,  even  our  faith." 

Faith  overcomes  the  world. 

The  world  is  seen  : — Heaven  is  hoped  for.  Sense  governs 
those  whose  hearts  are  in  the  world  ; — and  faith  those  whose 
hearts  are  in  Heaven.  Both  cannot  reign  together.  One 
therefore  must  overcome  the  other.  In  them  who  are  born 
of  God,  this  victory  is  given  to  faith. 

It  overcomes  all  that  is  in  the  world,  the  lust  of  the  flesh, 
the  lust  of  the  eyes,  and  the  pride  of  life.  It  treads  the 
world  beneath  its  feet,  triumphs  over  it,  rises  above  it,  and 
stretches  forward  into  futurity. 

It  looks  upon  this  life  as  a  dream,  an  empty  show,  for  it 
has  an  eye  upon  the  end,  and  upon  that  eternal  life  beyond. 
It  turns  from  the  trifles  of  time,  to  grasp  the  realities  of  eter- 
nity— weans  the  affections  from  things  below,  and  sets  them 
on  things  above. 

It  renders  afflictions  light  and  momentary,  by  contempla- 
ting that  far  more  exceeding,  and  eternal  weight  of  glory, 
which  they  shall  work  out.  In  bringing  distant  and  invisible 
scenes  into  present  view,  it  gives  them  all  the  influence  of  re- 
alities, over  the  temper  and  conduct. 

Such  was  the  power  of  faith  in  those  whom  the  apostle  has 
enumerated.  By  faith  Noah  overcame  the  world,  as  well  as 
condemned  it.  While  all  around  him  were  eating  and  drink- 
ing as  if  the  earth  were  to  abide  forever  ; — he  stood  alone 
on  the  high  and  holy  ground  of  implicit  confidence  in  God, 
he  stood  alone  a  preacher  of  righteousness,  warning  them  of 
the  fatal  day  ;  and,  though  made  a  gazing-stock,  went  on  un- 
moved, with  the  work  of  preparation. 

"  By  faith  Abraham  sojourned  even  in  the  land  of  promise, 
as  in  a  strange  countiy,  dwelling  in  tabernacles  with  Isaac 


SERMON    XII.  397 

and  Jacob,  the  heirs  with  him  of  the  same  promise : — for  he 
looked  for  a  city  which  hath  foundations,  whose  builder  and 
maker  is  God." 

"  These  all  died  in  faith,  not  having  received  the  promises, 
but  having  seen  them  afar  off,  and  were  persuaded  of  them, 
and  embraced  them,  and  confessed  that  they  were  strangers 
and  pilgrims  in  the  earth.  For  they  that  say  such  things  de- 
clare plainly,  that  they  seek  another  and  a  better  country, 
even  an  heavenly." 

"  By  faith  Moses,  when  he  was  come  to  years,  refused  to 
be  called  the  son  of  Pharaoh's  daughter  ;  choosing  rather  to 
sutler  affliction  with  the  people  of  God,  than  to  enjoy  the 
pleasures  of  sin  for  a  season  ;  esteeming  the  reproach  of 
Christ  greater  riches  than  the  treasures  of  Egypt  :  for  he 
had  respect  unto  the  recompense  of  reward.  By  faith  he  for- 
sook Egypt,  not  fearing  the  wrath  of  the  king  ;  for  he  endur- 
ed as  seeing  him  who  is  invisible." 

And  what  shall  I  say  more  ?  for  the  time  would  fail  me  to 
tell  of — prophets,  and  apostles,  and  martyrs,  who  believed  all 
things,  and  under  the  mighty  influence  of  this  faith  performed 
all  things,  hoped  all  things,  and  endured  all  things, — of  proph- 
ets who  stopped  the  mouths  of  lions  in  their  den,  and  quench- 
ed the  violence  of  the  fiery  furnace  ; — of  apostles  and  mar- 
tyrs, who  wandered  about  destitute,  afflicted,  tormented — of 
whom  the  world  was  not  worthy — who  were  stoned  and 
sawn  asunder, — but  who  in  the  tortures  of  martyrdom  ac- 
cepted not  deliverance,  that  they  might  obtain  a  better  re- 
surrection— even  to  eternal  life. 

This  is  indeed  overcoming  the  world,  and  all  that  is  there- 
in,— and  triumphing  over  the  grave,  by  the  power  of  faith. 

"  Wherefore  seeing  we  are  compassed  about  with  so  great 
a  cloud  of  witnesses,  let  us  lay  aside  every  weight,  and  the 
sin  which  doth  so  easily  beset  u.s,  and  let  us  run  with  patience 
the  race  set  before  us,  looking  unto  Jesus  the  author  tmd  fin- 
isher of  our  faith  ;  who  for  the  joy  set  before  him,  endured 
the  cross,  despising  the  shame,  and  is  set  down  at  the  right 
hand  of  the  throne  of  God." 


398  SERMON    XII. 

Faith  overcomes  the  world,  by  keeping  eternal  things  in 
view. 

A  spiritual  discernment  of  invisible  eternal  realities,  which 
is  the  conviction  of  the  judgment,  conscience,  and  heart — 
which  is  founded  upon  the  immutable  perfections  of  God, 
and  is  wrought  in  the  soul  by  his  Spirit,— is  a  light,  that  shows 
all  beneath  the  sun  to  be  vanity. 

While  we  look  steadfastly  at  the  things  which  are  unseen 
and  eternal, — the  things  which  are  seen  and  temporal  appear 
in  their  true  character,  and  lose  their  power. 

If  at  any  time  the  world  appear  so  inviting,  as  to  cause  a 
sigh  at  the  thought  of  leaving  it,  faith  despoils  it  of  every 
charm,  by  seating  us  upon  the  ruins  of  the  last  conflagration. 

When  the  world  presents  her  intoxicating  cup — faith  dash- 
es it  to  the  ground  untasted,  while  she  points  to  a  holy  God, 
and  a  judgment  to  come. 

When  the  world  would  overcome  us  by  her  frowns  or  flat- 
teries, faith  steps  in,  and  gains  the  victory,  by  giving  us  a 
glimpse  of  our  resting-place. 

Faith  takes  us  away  from  earth  and  time,  and  carries  us 
forward  ten  thousand  ages  into  eternity  ; — bids  us  turn,  and 
from  that  point  look  back  upon  this  world — then  O  how  she 
triumphs  over  it  ! 

Faith  overcomes  the  world  by  surrounding  us  with  the 
presence  of  the  invisible  God. 

To  set  the  Lord  always  before  us — to  live  as  seeing  him 
who  is  invisible — must  turn  away  the  eyes  from  beholding 
vanity,  and  keep  the  heart  from  minding  earthly  things. 
While  we  feel  that  we  cannot  flee  the  notice  of  his  eye,  that 
we  are  beset  behind  and  before,  and  that  his  unseen  hand  is  up- 
on us,  what  power  can  the  world  have  to  lead  us  astray  ? 

Faith  overcomes  the  world  by  revealing  a  refuge  in  the  in- 
visible God. 

In  this  warfare  with  the  world  we  all  need  an  Almighty 
arm  to  protect  us  and  bear  us  up,  lest  we  fall  and  be  over- 
come ourselves.  The  contest  is  not  yet  decided — the  final 
victory  is  not  yet  ours.     We  are  weak — our  enemies  are  ma- 


SEKMON  XII.  399 

ny  and  powerful.  We  are  in  the  enemies  country,  beset 
with  dangers,  and  kept  in  constant  alarm  by  foes  without  and 
fears  within.  We  want  then  a  tower,  a  strong-hold,  into 
which  we  may  run  and  be  safe. 

Amidst  all  the  trials  and  vicissitudes  of  life,  we  want  an 
object  of  trust  beyond  the  reach  of  change,  on  which  we  may 
rest  forever  without  wavering — that  our  confidence  may  be- 
come a  habit  so  inwrought  with  our  very  existence,  that  when 
we  cease  to  trust,  we  may  cease  to  be. 

Faith  discovers  such  a  refuge — such  an  object  of  trust, — in 
the  invisible  God. 

With  a  faithful  God  for  his  portion,  the  believer  wants 
nothing  here.  He  lets  the  world  pass.  With  the  eternal  God 
for  his  refuge,  he  has  nothing  to  fear.  His  victory  is  certain. 
He  will  not  fear  what  flesh  can  do  unto  him.  Though  an 
host  encamp  against  him,  he  will  not  be  afraid.  The  Lord 
is  at  his  right  hand,  and  he  cannot  be  moved. 

He  can  look  into  the  grave  without  fear,  while  he  knows — 
knows  in  whom  he  has  believed,  and  is  persuaded  that  he  is 
able  to  keep  that  which  he  commits  into  his  hands,  and  faith- 
ful to  remember  it  at  the  rising  of  the  just. 

He  can  even  look  upon  the  end  of  all  things  without  tremb- 
ling ;.  for  while  the  heavens  are  passing  away,  and  the  earth 
and  the  works  that  are  therein  are  burning  up,  he  shall  hear 
the  Almighty  Judge  from  his  throne  in  that  great  and  terri- 
ble day,  saying  to  him  in  accents  of  infinite  mercy — with  all 
the  condescending  tenderness  of  a  reigning  Redeemer — "  It 
is  I,  be  not  afraid."  From  his  ark  of  safety  he  shall  see  the 
flood  of  Divine  wrath  coming  upon  the  world,  and  while  the 
unbelieving  and  ungodly  are  fleeing  to  the  mountains,  quaking 
with  fear  and  wailing  because  the  day  is  come,  "  he  will  not 
fear  though  the  earth  be  removed,  and  though  the  mountains 
be  carried  into  the  midst  of  the  sea — though  the  waves  there- 
of roar  and  be  troubled — though  the  mountains  shake  with 
the  swelling  thereof" 

"  The  Lord  of  hosts  is  with  him — the  God  of  Jacob  is  his 
refuge." 


400 


SERMON  XII. 


This  is  the  final  triumph  of  faith.  The  warfare  is  over, 
and  the  victory  complete.  Her  trials  are  at  an  end : — her 
reward  is  come — the  reward  of  her  patience,  her  prayers  and 
her  tears.  She  opens  her  eyes  upon  the  sight  of  all  that  she 
believed,  and  loses  herself  in  the  enjoyment  of  all  that  she 
hoped  for.  The  believer  has  now  done  forever  with  behold- 
ing through  a  glass  darkly  :  henceforth  he  sees  face  to  face  ; 
henceforth  he  sees  as  he  is  seen,  and  knows  as  he  is  known, 
and  loves  as  he  is  loved. 


SERMON  XIII. 


JEREMIAH,  ii    32. 


"  Can  a  maid  forget  her  ornaments,  or  a  bride  her  attire  ?  Yet  my  people  have 
forgotten  me  days  without  number." 

In  looking  over  the  face  of  society,  among  many  features 
characteristic  of  human  nature,  forgetfulness  of  God  strikes 
the  eye  of  contemplative  piety  as  not  the  least  prominent. 
To  hsten  to  the  conversation  of  the  vast  multitude,  to  watch 
them  in  their  innumerable  pursuits  of  business  and  pleasure, 
and  to  follov^^  them  into  the  retirement  of  the  family,  is  to  find 
melancholy  proof  of  their  incHnation  to  forget  the  great  and 
good  Being  that  made  them.  Nor  will  any  candid  man  find, 
in  the  retirement  of  his  breast,  less  convincing  proof  of  this 
strong  and  universal  inchnation.  Were  there  nothing  to  bring 
the  eternal  God  to  mind,  but  the  natural  disposition  of  men, 
he  would  not  be  in  all  their  thoughts.  Left  to  themselves, 
when  would  they  begin  to  inquire  after  the  Author  of  their 
being  and  their  blessings,  in  order  to  render  him  the  tribute 
of  gratitude  and  obedience?  Never  ! — Neither  in  the  boasted 
innocence  of  childhood,  nor  in  the  loveliness  of  youth,  nor  yet 
in  the  wisdom  of  manhood,  nor  even  in  the  sobriety  of  age. 
The  millions  of  one  generation  after  another  would  live 
through  every  period  of  their  mortal  course,  without  any  de- 
vout recognition  of  their  Creator ;  and  death  would  find  them 
all,  in  every  important  respect,  without  God  in  the  world — 
without  any  love  to  his  infinite  excellence,  any  hope  in  his 
mercy,  any  fear  of  his  justice,  or  any  knowledge  of  his  per- 
fections. 

51 


40» 


SERMON    XIII. 


And  now  that  he  has  revealed  himself  in  so  many  ways,  in 
manifestations  so  clear,  coming  in  from  every  quarter,  to 
bring  him  to  view,  the  conduct  and  condition  of  multitudes, 
even  in  christian  lands,  is  hardly  less  lamentable.  These 
find  themselves  in  possession  of  an  intelligent  existence,  des- 
tined to  be  prolonged  for  ages  without  end  ;  and  yet  this  gift 
of  an  existence  so  exalted,  is  enjoyed,  as  if  it  were  no  gift  of 
divine  benevolence,  but  a  blessing  of  their  own  procuring,  or 
conferred  on  them  in  the  revolutions  of  chance,  and  therefore 
bringing  with  it  no  governing  weight  of  obligations  to  a  high- 
er power.  They  find  themselves  upheld,  and  borne  along 
from  one  year  to  another,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  instruments 
of  death  in  operation  around  them,  and  yet  they  seem  to  care 
not  by  what  almighty  hand.  They  find  their  path  scattered 
with  a  rich  variety  of  mercies,  but  the  hand  that  scatters  them 
is  unseen  and  forgotten.  Thousands  pass  through  life,  not 
only  without  any  spiritual  knowledge  of  their  Maker,  but  even 
without  any  serious  thoughts  about  him.  When  they  look  up- 
ward to  the  glories  of  the  firmament,  they  see  not  the  glory 
of  God.  When  they  look  around  on  the  loveliness  and  mu- 
nificence of  earth,  they  see  not  the  loveliness  and  munificence 
of  God.  They  look  upon  the  universe  as  an  empty  edifice, 
and  not  as  the  abode  of  the  omnipresent  Maker  of  all  things. 
Were  the  sun  as  near  the  earth  as  the  moon  is,  it  would  cover 
the  whole  visible  heavens,  and  all  above  and  around  us  would 
be  nothing  but  one  blazing  firmament.  This  image  affords 
but  a  faint  illustration  of  the  glory  of  the  all-surrounding  Di- 
vinity ;  and  yet  these  men  see  him  not.  In  him  they  live,  and 
move,  and  have  their  being  ;  and  yet  they  feel  him  not.  He 
speaks  to  them  in  the  soft  accents  of  mercy,  and  in  the  thun- 
ders of  omnipotent  justice  ;  and  yet  they  hear  him  not.  He 
is  about  their  path  by  day,  and  their  bed  by  night ;  he  is  ever 
behmd  them  and  before,  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left ; 
and  yet  they  live  all  this  while  unconcious  of  his  presence. 
They  live  at  ease  without  even  inquiring  whether  he  have  any 
claims  upon  them  or  not,  and  whether  he  will  be  their  friend 
or  their  enemy,  and  will  make  them  happy  or  miserable  be- 


SERMON  XIII.  -103 

yond  the  grave.  They  Hve  as  if  there  were  no  God  of  holi- 
ness on  the  throne,  whose  eye  is  ever  fixed  upon  them,  and  to 
whose  righteous  tribunal  they  are  hastening  with  the  speed 
of  winds.  They  overlook  the  infinite  Jehovah ;  they  think 
not  of  him.  They  can  think  of  any  being  but  him — any  being 
but  that  God,  whom  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  contemplate  with 
unceasing  adoration,  and  whom  they  would  remember,  though 
every  other  object  in  the  universe  were  forgotten.  They 
can  employ  their  thoughts  with  intense  interest  on  the  veriest 
trifles  of  the  world ;  but  they  cannot  thus  employ  them  on 
the  great  and  glorious  Jehovah.  A  maid  cannot  forget  her 
ornaments,  nor  a  bride  her  attire  ;  but  the  offspring  of  the  in- 
finite God  can  forget  him  days  without  number.  Yes — they 
can  do  it  days  without  number.  Life  is  not  too  long  to  be 
all  spent  in  forgetfulness  of  God. 

In  the  observations  that  have  now  been  made,  we  have  be- 
fore us  a  fact,  that  ought  to  be  as  alarming  to  us,  as  it  must  be 
astonishing  to  angels.  It  cannot  be  denied  to  be  a  fact  of 
deep  and  fearful  interest  to  us,  as  helpless  creatures  in  the 
hands  of  this  forgotten  God,  and  bound  by  every  possible  ob- 
ligation to  remember  him  without  ceasing,  and  with  all  the 
love  of  a  humble  and  holy  heart. 

With  this  fact  in  view  permit  me  to  call  your  serious  atten- 
tion to  the  following  remarks  respecting  it. 

I.  Forgetfulness  of  God  is  consistent  with  enmity  towards 
him. 

It  is  evident  that  the  forgetfulness  spoken  of  in  the  text  is 
of  the  most  literal  kind — that  in  which  God  is  not  in  all  the 
thoughts.  This  is  the  forgetfulness,  which  has  now  been  pre- 
sented to  your  view,  as  a  fact  of  dreadful  moment.  Men  are 
said  to  forget  God,  when  they  refuse  to  acknowledge  their 
obligations  to  him,  and  to  fulfil  these  obligations.  This  they 
can  do,  and  still  think  of  him.  My  present  object,  however, 
is  to  show  that  this  kind  of  forgetfulness  is  included  in  that 
under  consideration.  It  may  be  asked,  if  it  be  possible  to 
feel  enmity  towards  any  being,  without  thinkmg  of  him.  In 
answer  to  this  question,  it  may  safely  be  asserted,  that  men 


404  SERMON  XIII. 

can  be  enemies  to  a  fellow  man,  without  being  always  con- 
scious of  the  existence  of  active  enmity  towards  him.  They 
can  be  such  at  the  time,  that  there  is  in  reality  no  direct  en- 
mity in  exercise  towards  him,  and  even  while  he  is  not  pres- 
ent to  their  thoughts.  Subjects  of  an  earthly  monarch  are 
surely  his  enemies,  when  they  take  the  ground  of  rebellion, 
so  that  every  act  of  theirs  becomes  in  effect  an  act  of  hostility 
to  his  throne  ;  and  yet  the  idea  of  him  may  not  be  always 
before  them.  Subjects  of  the  divine  government  hate  the 
king  of  heaven,  when  they  are  at  war  with  him.  They  are 
at  war  with  him  when  they  live  in  wilful  and  habitual  viola- 
tion of  his  laws  ;  and  this  they  can  do  while  he  himself  is  far 
from  their  thoughts.  What  command  of  his  can  they  not 
break,  and  still  not  think  of  him  ?  Can  they  not  profane  his 
Sabbath,  his  house,  and  even  his  name,  and  yet  not  think  of 
him?  Can  they  not  neglect  his  word,  his  worship  in  the  family, 
and  in  the  closet,  and  all  their  duties  to  him  and  his  creatures, 
and  still  not  think  of  him?  And  have  they  then  no  enmity 
towards  him?  Can  the  righteous  monarch  of  the  universe  re- 
gard them  as  friends,  or  as  no  enemies,  though  they  leave 
their  obligations  to  him  thus  unfulfilled,  and  live  in  open  re- 
bellion against  him  ?  Has  he  so  little  respect  for  the  laws 
which  he  has  given  tous,  that  the  uninterrupted  violation'of  them 
is  considered  by  him  as  evincing  no  hostility  to  himself?  May 
the  statutes  promulgated  to  our  world  with  such  overwhelm- 
ing majesty,  and  enforced  by  sanctions  of  such  eternal  weight, 
be  treated  as  idle  words,  and  yet  the  Governor  of  the  world 
be  regarded  with  love,  or  without  hatred  ?  So  far  is  forgetful- 
nessof  God  from  being  inconsistent  with  aversion  towards  him, 
that  it  marks  that  aversion  as  great,  and  stamps  upon  it  the 
character  of  no  ordinary  guilt.  When  men,  for  instance, 
have  become  so  accustomed  to  profane  the  name  of  God,  as 
to  do  it  without  any  thought  of  him,  they  surely  are  no  more 
the  friends  of  God,  than  they  were  when  the  commission  of 
this  crime  brought  him  to  mind  at  once,  and  filled  them  with 
trembling. 


SERMON    XIII.  405 

If  men  are  justly  required  to  obey  God,  then  are  they  fur- 
nished with  the  means  of  obtaining  a  knowledge  of  his  require- 
ments, and  with  a  natural  power  to  obey  them.  To  refuse 
to  obey  must  therefore  be  an  act  of  hostility  to  God;  and 
this  act  may  be  committed  while  God  himself  is  far  from  the 
mind. 

It  is  certain  that  God  cannot  be  loved,  while  days  and 
months  and  years  are  suffered  to  pass  without  any  serious 
thoughts  about  him,  for  an  object  of  love  is  an  object  of  fre- 
quent meditation.  But  in  moral  and  accountable  creatures, 
not  to  love  God  is  to  hate  him.  There  is  no  ground  that 
men  can  occupy,  between  the  dominion  of  allegiance  and 
that  of  rebellion — no  ground  where  they  can  cast  off  their  ob- 
ligations, and  live  as  they  list,  without  being  either  the  friends 
or  the  enemies  of  God. 

Men  may  be  said  to  be  in  heart  opposed  to  God  while  they 
are  not  thinking  of  him,  if  this  opposition  is  brought  into  ac- 
tion whenever  the  true  character  of  God  is  clearly  presented 
to  the  mind. 

In  these  several  ways  may  men  be  regarded  as  at  enmity 
with  God,  while  they  are  living  in  forgetfulness  of  him. 
While  he  is  far  from  their  thoughts,  they  may  break  his  laws, 
when  they  cannot  do  it  without  hostility  to  himself ;  they  may 
neglect  to  love  him,  when  they  cannot  do  it  without  hating 
him  ;  and  they  may  possess  a  spirit,  ready  to  be  waked  into 
feelings  of  direct  enmity  towards  him,  whenever  he  is  brought 
distinctly  to  view.  Thus  may  men  live  day  after  day  at  en- 
mity with  the  High  and  Holy  One,  while  not  an  action  is 
performed,  nor  a  word  is  uttered,  nor  an  idea  is  conceived, 
in  which  his  existence  is  voluntarily  and  immediately  re- 
cognised. 

II.  Forgetfulness  of  God  is  occasioned  by  enmity  towards 
him. 

It  may  be  thought,  that  when  men  live  in  forgetfulness  of 
God,  it  is  because  he  is  not  an  object  of  sense,  while  they 
themselves  are,  and  are  placed  in  the  midst  of  other  sensible 
objects,  and  acquire  their  ideas  of  them,  either  directly  or  in- 


406 


SERMON    XIII. 


directly,  through  the  medium  of  their  senses.  God  they  see 
not — they  hear  not.  No  image  of  his  personal  glory  is  al- 
ways before  them ;  no  blaze  of  it  bursts  at  times  on  their 
view.  No  voice  from  his  throne  in  the  skies  reaches  their 
ears  ;  and  from  the  invisible  air  around  them  they  never 
catch  the  soft  accents  of  his  love.  But  may  not  an  earthly 
friend,  while  unseen  and  unheard,  be  an  object  of  constant  re- 
membrance, especially  if  we  have  before  us  the  written  ex- 
pressions of  his  friendship,  and  are  surrounded  by  tokens  of  it 
in  the  works  and  gifts  of  his  hand.  The  cause  of  this  con- 
stant remembrance  of  such  a  friend  is  to  be  found  in  the 
state  of  our  hearts  towards  him.  And  if  God  thus  reigned  in 
our  affections,  or  if  the  state  of  our  moral  feelings  were  such 
as  to  render  it  natural  for  us  so  to  love  him,  he  would  be  as 
constantly  remembered,  encompassed  as  we  are  by  the  won- 
ders of  his  power,  and  loaded  as  we  are  with  the  blessings  of 
his  providence  and  his  grace,  and  having  before  us  the  writ- 
ten declarations  of  his  love  to  us.  From  what  then  can  ha- 
bitual forgetfulness  of  God  proceed,  in  such  circumstances, 
but  from  aversion  towards  him  ?  Could  men  move  about  in 
a  world,  where  every  object  bears  the  bright  impress  of  a  di- 
vine hand,  and  yet  live  in  such  forgetfulness  of  God,  if  they 
did  not  dislike  to  retain  him  in  their  knowledge  ? 

Some  may  think  that  God  is  thus  forgotten  because  he  is 
infinitely  above  mankind  in  the  scale  of  existence.  It  may  be 
urged  that  the  difficulty  of  fixing  our  thoughts  on  an  infinite 
Being,  the  impossibility  of  comprehending  him,  and  the  wea- 
riness of  the  labouring  mind  in  making  the  attempt,  uniteto 
prevent  his  being  a  subject  of  frequent  contemplation.  It 
may  be  said  that  the  human  mind  must  of  necessity  find  more 
pleasure  in  contemplating  subjects  more  on  a  level  with  its 
capacities — subjects  in  which  investigation  is  attended  with 
greater  success,  and  what  is  sought  after  is  more  within  the 
reach.  It  may  be  thought  that  the  intellectual  powers  of  an 
angel  are  necessary,  to  render  the  infinite  God  a  pleasant  and 
therefore  a  frequent  subject  of  meditation.  It  must  be  ac- 
knowledged that  there  would  be  some  force  in  these  consid- 


SERMON  XIII. 


407 


erations,  if  in  order  to  think  of  God  in  a  devout  and  profitable 
manner,  it  were  necessary  to  regard  the  mysteries  of  his  ex- 
istence as  an  eternal  and  omnipresent  Spirit,  rather  than  the 
moral  perfections  of  his  character  as  the  Lawgiver  and  Judge 
of  the  world.  A  child  can  easily  think  of  God  as  a  holy  and 
a  merciful  being;  and  the  wisest  man  on  earth  can  go  but  little 
further,  without  meeting  difficulties  that  he  cannot  remove, 
or  wandering  in  the  midst  of  useless  speculations,  or  losing 
himself  in  clouds  and  darkness.  Or  at  least  it  is  the  peculiar 
province  of  piety,  to  contemplate  God  as  such  a  being,  and 
leave  it  to  philosophy  to  indulge  in  conjectures  respecting  the 
mode  of  his  existence.  The  humblest  intellect  may  under- 
stand enough  of  God,  as  the  benevolent  Father  and  righteous 
Governor  of  the  universe,  to  furnish  inexhaustible  themes  of 
contemplation.  Why  then  need  any  live  in  forgetfulness  of 
him  ?  Why  do  any  live  thus?  Why  is  there  one  to  be  found, 
who  rises  in  the  morning,  and  goes  through  the  business  of 
the  day,  and  lies  down  at  night,  and  does  all  this  as  an  habitu- 
al thing,  without  any  thought  of  God  ?  Why  are  there  so  ma- 
ny thousands  that  live  thus  ?  Must  not  this  dreadful  uniform- 
ity of  conduct  in  such  multitudes  spring  from  the  same  source? 
And  can  any  thing  but  hatred  to  the  divine  character  be  the 
source  of  such  conduct  ?  Would  men,  once  possessed  of  the 
knowledge  of  God,  ever  cease  to  remember  him,  if  he  were 
the  object  of  their  supreme  delight  ?  Would  God  ever  be  shut 
out  of  the  mind,  if  he  were  not  first  shut  out  of  the  heart? 
Would  he  have  been  forgotten  as  he  has  been  in  our  world, 
if  the  first  parents  of  our  race  had  retained  their  original  love 
to  him,  and  all  their  descendants  had  felt  towards  him  no  oth- 
er emotion  ?  Have  not  the  great  multitude  of  every  genera- 
tion spent  their  days  in  forgetfulness  of  God,  because  they 
have  first  said  to  him  from  the  heart,  "  Depart  from  us,  for  we 
desire  not  the  knowledge  of  thy  ways  ?" 

Want  of  time  or  means,  for  obtaining  and  preserving  the 
knowledge  of  God,  cannot  be  the  cause  of  this  forgetfulness, 
any  more  than  the  spirituality  of  God,  or  his  infinite  great- 
nes?.     For  what  is  time  given,  but  to  be  spent  in  obtaining 


408  SERMON  XIII. 

the  knowledge  of  God,  and  in  performing  his  will?  And  why 
are  the  volume  of  nature,  and  that  of  inspiration,  with  all  their 
divine  wonders,  spread  before  our  eyes  so  constantly,  if  it  be 
not  that  they  may  be  as  constantly  read,  for  the  purpose  of 
becoming  acquainted  with  the  perfections  and  the  require- 
ments of  God  ?  What  have  we  to  do  on  God's  earth,  if  not  to 
ascertain  our  relation  to  God,  and  so  to  live  in  view  of  it,  as  to 
prepare  for  another  and  a  better  world  beyond  the  grave  ? 
And  can  we  so  neglect  this  great  work  of  life,  as  to  forget 
God,  and  still  plead  in  our  excuse  the  want  of  time  or  means 
to  do  otherwise  ?  We  may  make  such  a  plea  with  our  lips  ; 
but  we  never  can  feel  it  to  be  sufficient,  to  satisfy  God  or  our 
own  consciences.  I  ask  then  again,  what  but  enmity  to  God 
can  be  the  cause  of  this  forgetfulness  ? 

Can  it  be  that  the  consequences  of  living  in  such  forgetful- 
ness, and  the  consequences  of  pursuing  the  opposite  course 
of  conduct,  are  so  unimportant  in  themselves,  or  so  little  dif- 
ferent from  each  other,  as  to  afford  no  preponderating  weight 
of  motives,  in  favour  of  avoiding  the  former  course  of  life,  and 
choosing  the  latter  ?  Do  any  live  in  forgetfulness  of  God, 
because  no  evil  is  to  be  feared  from  it  ?  or  because  they 
believe  that  there  is  none  ?  And,  with  the  bible  in  their 
hands,  are  they  excusable  for  such  a  belief  ?  Does  not  even 
this  spring  from  hatred  to  the  character  of  a  holy  God  ?  Can 
the  consciences  of  men  be  so  perverted  or  seared,  that  they 
can  live  in  forgetfulness  of  God  all  their  days,  and  still  expect, 
and  feel  that  they  have  reason  to  expect,  nothing  but  good 
from  it  in  the  world  to  come  ?  Are  sinners  able  so  to  stifle  the 
voice  of  God  within  them,  that  it  shall  never  utter  a  whisper 
respecting  the  claims  of  his  violated  law,  and  waken  "  a  certain 
fearful  looking-for  of  judgment  ?"  However  this  may  be,  it 
will  not  alter  the  fact,  that  there  is  something  for  transgres- 
ors  to  fear  beyond  the  grave.  It  will  not  turn  the  truth  of 
God  into  a  lie.  It  will  not  dissolve  the  connexion  between  sin 
and  misery.  It  will  not  make  the  broad  and  downward  way 
end  amid  the  glories  of  the  upper  world.  "  The  wicked  shall 
be  turned  into  hell,  and  all  the  nations  that  forget  God." 


SERMOxN    Xlll. 


409 


And  is  there  not  in  such  a  doom  as  this,  enough  to  keep 
ahve  that  rennembrance  of  God,  by  which  only  it  can  be 
be  avoided  ?  Is  there  not  enough  to  do  this,  M'hen  on  the  oth- 
er hand  a  heaven  of  unutterable  blessedness  is  the  reward  of 
such  remembrance  ?  With  ruin  impending  on  one  hand  and 
salvation  inviting  on  the  other,  can  men  choose  the  way  of 
transgression,  from  the  want  of  sufficient  motives  to  fix  their 
choice  on  the  way  of  obedience  ?  On  the  contrary,  does  not 
the  fact,  that  they  can  make  such  a  choice  in  such  circum- 
stances, afford  the  most  convincing  proof,  that  it  must  be 
made  under  the  influence  of  as  deep  and  dreadful  a  principle, 
as  that  of  hatred  to  the  character  and  requirements  of  Jeho- 
vah ?  From  what  but  such  a  principle,  could  they  derive  suf- 
ficient moral  hardihood,  to  hve  at  ease  without  God  in  the 
world,  in  the  certain  prospect  of  losing  all  that  is  glorious  in 
the  immortality  of  heaven,  and  bringing  upon  themselves  all 
the  woes  of  a  ruined  eternity  ?  If  men  can  live  in  forgetful- 
ness  of  God  in  such  circumstances,  can  they  do  it  from  any 
reason  but  enmity  against  him  ?  Will  any  other  reason  be 
given  at  the  tribunal  of  the  last  day  ?  Among  all  the  excuses 
that  may  now  be  urged  for  such  conduct,  will  there  be  one 
that  death  shall  not  sweep  away,  or  the  solemnities  of  the 
judgment  put  to  silence  ? 

From  the  view  that  has  now  been  taken,  of  the  subject  un- 
der consideration,  I  trust  that  our  minds  are  in  some  measure 
prepared,  to  acknowledge  the  truth  of  the  following  reflec- 
tions. 

1.  The  depravity  of  mankind  is  great. 

It  would  seem  as  if  the  thought  of  such  a  being  as  God,  af- 
ter once  entering  the  mind  of  man,  would  never  leave  it  for  a 
single  waking  hour.  How  can  he  but  be  wrapt  up  continual- 
ly in  this  solitary  thought  ?  Why  is  it  that  all  whom  we  meet, 
are  hot  thinking  of  him,  in  whom  they  live  and  move  and  have 
their  being  ?  On  the  contrary,  why  is  it  so  possible,  that  not 
one  whom  we  meet  is  thinking  of  him  ?  Why  is  it  so  certain 
that  the  great  multitude  of  every  land  and  of  every  genera- 
tion live  in  forgetfulness  of  him  ?  Who  are  the  creatures  that 


410 


SERMON  Xlll. 


thus  forget  their  Creator  ?  And  what  world  is  this  in  which 
they  dwell  1  Have  they  no  understanding,  to  obtain  the  knowl- 
edge of  God  ;  and  no  memory,  to  treasure  it  up  ;  and  no 
conscience  to  feel  the  obligations  involved  in  it  ?  Is  this  little 
round  of  months  and  years  the  whole  of  their  existence  ? 
And  is  this  world  of  theirs  a  dark  and  desolate  spot  in  the 
universe,  without  one  ray  of  divine  glory,  or  one  trace  of  the 
divine  presence  ?  Is  there  nothing  here  to  bring  the  eternal 
God  to  mind  ?  In  all  this  earth  are  there  no  voices  to  plead 
for  him  1  Is  all  as  silent  as  the  grave  ?  Has  no  voice  from 
heaven  reached  the  ears  of  mortals  ?  Has  no  book  of  laws 
and  overtures  infinitely  benevolent  been  handed  down  to 
them  from  the  throne  of  the  Most  High  ?  Has  no  redeeming 
blood  been  shed  for  them  ?  Has  no  Spirit  of  truth  and  grace 
been  poured  out  upon  them  ?  Has  no  bright  pathway  been 
opened  for  them  from  the  tomb  to  the  skies  ?  And  have  they 
been  surrounded  by  no  mighty  array  of  means  and  motives 
to  press  them  into  it  ?  If  such  were  the  condition  of  men  in 
this  world,  then  might  it  be  expected  that  God  would  not  be 
in  all  their  thoughts.  But  their  condition,  however  lamenta- 
ble, would  not  be  one  of  immeasurable  guilt  as  it  now  is. 
Are  we  struck  with  horror  at  the  guilt  of  those  angels,  that 
rose  in  rebellion  against  God  at  the  very  foot  of  his  throne, 
and,  casting  contempt  upon  his  righteous  authority,  and  upon 
his  infinite  goodness,  threw  away  all  the  glory  of  eternal  life 
in  his  presence  ?  And  can  we  regard  with  insensibility  the 
guilt  of  men,  who  banish  from  their  minds  the  thought  of 
God,  while  they  are  living  at  the  very  gate  of  that  path, 
which  the  Son  of  God,  with  tears  and  conflicts  and  dying 
cries,  has  opened  for  them,  up  to  the  lost  thrones  of  those 
apostate  angels  ?  Can  it  be  believed  that  men,  who  thus  ban- 
ish God  from  their  thoughts,  and  do  it  from  enmity  against 
him,  still  retain  any  trace  of  his  moral  likeness  ?  Talk  they 
of  the  dignity  of  their  nature  ?  Do  they  glory  in  the  marks  of 
their  high  origin  and  intrinsic  worth,  that  are  to  be  discover- 
ed amid  the  ruins  of  the  fall  ?  It  is  true  that  they  still  possess 
the  faculties  of  a  rational   existence  :  but  what  dignity  is 


SEUMON  XIll. 


411 


there  in  so  abusing  them,  as  to  change  them  from  blessings 
into  everlasting  judgments  ?    It  is  true  that  they  are  still  im- 
mortal ;  but  what  intrinsic  worth  is  there  in  an  immortality, 
which,  after  a  few  days  of  trouble  and  vanity,  they  would 
gladly  exchange  for  the   doom  of  the  beasts   that  perish  ? 
When  we  hear  men,  that  live  without  God  in  the  world, 
boasting  of  their  exalted  rank  in  the  scale  of  being,  what  do 
we  hear  but  infatuated  immortals  exulting  at  the  thought  of 
occupying  a  height,   from  which  their  fall   will  only  be  the 
more  certain  and  dreadful  ?  Why  should  any  glory  in  being 
allied  to  angels  and  to  God,  by  the  possession  of  an  intelli- 
gent and  imperishable  soul,  if  by  wanting  all  moral  affinity  to 
them,  they  only  fit  themselves  to  be  driven  from  them  into 
eternal  exile  1  Will  the  thought  of  their  intellectual  eminence 
mitigate  the    horrors  of  that  exile  ?  Will  the  recollection  of 
their  high  origin  reconcile  them  to  an  end  in  the  depths  df  hell  ? 
Will  they  become  satisfied  with  such  a  doom,  by  gazing  up  in- 
to heaven,  and  ranking  themselves  with  its  inhabitants  in  un- 
derstanding and  immortality,  when  they  cannot  but   remem- 
ber that  they  should  have  been  with  them  in  that  happy  world, 
had  they  been  like  them  in  moral  excellence  ?  Will  they  then 
think  but  little  of  their  moral  degradation,  while  they  lived 
on  the  earth,  surrounded  by  the  light  of  heaven's  open  gates  ? 
Will  there  then  appear  but  little  depravity,  in  spending  thi» 
life  in  forgetfulness  of  God,  from  latent  enmity  against  him  ? 
On   the   contrary  will  they  not  look  back  upon  such  a  life, 
with  amazement  at  their  blindness  and  insensibility  ?  Will 
they  not  cry  out  against  the  strange  infatuation  that  possessed 
them,  and  hurried   them  through  a  career  of  vain  pleasures, 
far  away  from  their  Maker  and  from  all  enduring  good  ?  O 
the  bitter  memory  of  their  guilt !  How  gladly  would  they 
bury  it,  by  burying  themselves  under  everlasting  mountains  ! 
My  impenitent  hearers,  beware  of  such  a  day,  when  the  light 
of  truth   shall  burst  upon  you  and  blaze  around  you  only  to 
make  visible  the  darkness  of  despair.     Spend  no  more  time 
in  making  work  for  such  remembrance.     Think  of  your  past 
guilt  as  it  is,  ere  the  hope  of  deliverance  be  gone.     Wait  not 


412 


SEKIMON  Xlir. 


to  learn  in  the  world  of  retribution,  how  dreadful  a  thing  it  is 
to  live  unmindful  of  him,  who  is  the  Arbiter  of  life  and  death. 

2.    The  enmity  of  them  that  forget    God  here  will  be 
greatly  increased  hereafter. 

This  must  be  acknowledged  to  be  a  dreadful  reflection,  if 
the  truth  of  it  be  not  doubted.  No  such  doubt  can  exist  in 
the  minds  of  any,  who  receive  as  true  the  preceding  re- 
marks, on  forgetfulness  of  God,  and  on  the  great  cause  of  it. 
For  if  men  can  possess  enmity  against  God,  while  they  live 
in  forgetfulness  of  him,  and  in  such  a  world  of  mercy  as  this, 
who  can  deny  that  their  enmity  must  upon  natural  principles 
be  far  greater,  when  they  shall  live  with  God  ever  present  to 
their  thoughts,  and  in  a  world  of  unmingled  justice  ?  If  there 
be  in  unregenerate  men  in  this  life,  an  enmity  towards  God, 
which  is  waked  into  exercise  when  his  holy  character  and 
government  are  brought  but  faintly  to  view,  and  constitutes 
the  secret  spring  of  moral  action  while  they  are  out  of  sight, 
how  can  we  avoid  the  inference,  that  this  enmity  will  be 
greatly  augmented  in  the  life  to  come,  when  the  holiness  of 
God  shall  be  the  object  of  unobscured  and  uninterrupted  vis- 
ion ?  Who  does  not  shudder  at  the  thought  ?  Who  does  not 
feel  a  trembling  of  terror  at  the  bare  possibility,  that  such  a 
strong  and  undying  enmity  against  the  divine  character  and 
government  may  take  possession  of  his  soul  hereafter  ?  Do 
any  flatter  themselves,  that  they  shall  be  able  to  escape  from 
the  anguish  of  such  enmity,  by  banishing  God  from  their 
minds  ?  Banish  him  they  cannot.  They  may  forget  him  in 
this  world,  where  he  surrounds  them  with  the  blessings  of 
his  providence  and  his  grace  ;  but  they  cannot  forget  him  in 
that  world,  where  he  shall  pour  out  upon  them  the  vials  of 
his  wrath.  They  will  there  behold  no  bright  and  happy 
scenes,  like  those  of  earth,  to  keep  him  in  view.  There  will 
be  above  them  no  heavens  like  these,  to  declare  his  glory, — no 
firmamnt  like  this,  to  show  the  work  of  his  hand.  No  day 
unto  day  will  utter  speech  ;  nor  night  unto  night  show  know- 
ledge. No  sun  and  moon  will  rise  and  set  at  his  bidding.  No 
inmmierable  host  of  stars  will  roll  over  their  heads,  meeting 


SERMON  XllU 


413 


the  eye  wherever  they  look,  and  fiUing  the  vault  above  with 
the  light  of  his  universal  presence.  No  revolving  seasons 
will  spread  around  them  all  the  riches  of  his  goodness.  No 
bible  will  reveal  to  their  sight  the  wonders  of  his  love.  No 
Sabbath  with  its  hallowed  stillness  will  call  them  away  from 
scenes  of  tumult  and  iniquity,  into  the  calm  retirement  of 
communion  with  God.  No  sanctuary  will  open  its  doors  to 
invite  them  into  the  gate  of  heaven.  No  cross  will  be  erect- 
ed as  a  monument  of  his  mercy.  No  Holy  Spirit  will  be  sent 
down  from  heaven,  to  give  energy  to  his  truth,  and  make 
known  the  fulness  of  his  grace.  There  will  be  none  of  these 
things,  to  keep  God  in  view  ;  but  there  will  be  the  remem- 
brance of  them  all.  They  can  then  forget  God  no  more,  till 
the  power  of  memory  be  gone.  And  O  think,  my  hearers, 
what  misery  there  must  be,  in  spending  eternity,  in  contem- 
plating the  perfections,  and  the  ways,  of  a  God  forgotten  in 
time.  But  there  will  be  more  than  the  memory  of  the  past 
to  bring  him  to  mind.  There  will  be  the  deep  ^nd  abiding 
sense  of  his  present  justice,  in  inflicting  upon  them  the  pun- 
ishment which  they  suffer.  He  will  be  deemed  afar  off"  only 
as  respects  the  resemblance  of  character  and  the  union  of 
love.  In  other  respects  he  will  be  regarded  as  nearer  than 
ever.  They  will  see  him  as  he  is.  They  will  see  him,  and 
hear  him,  and  feel  him,  as  beings  that  are  all  sense,  and 
thought,  and  feeling.  The  idea  of  him  as  he  appeared  on  the 
judgment-seat,  measuring  out  to  them  their  portion  for  eter^ 
nity  according  to  their  works,  will  never  leave  them.  The 
sound  of  his  voice,  as  he  passed  upon  them  the  sentence  of 
returnless  banishment,  will  ring  forever  in  their  ears.  They 
will  sink  forever  under  the  weight  of  his  almighty  hand  press- 
ing them  down.  Does  this  look  as  if  he  derived  a  malignant 
pleasure  from  their  sufferings  ?  The  sufferers  themselves  can- 
not think  so.  If  they  could,  it  would  take  away  the  bitter- 
ness of  their  cup.  They  will  be  convinced  of  no  truth  more 
deeply,  than  of  the  benevolent  equity  of  their  Judge.  And 
yet  will  they  feel  any  the  less  enmity  towards  him  ?  Did 
they  feel  less  while  on  earthy  as  they  obtained  a  clearer    dis- 


414 


SERMON    XIII. 


CO  very  of  this  truth,  and  a  firmer  belief  of  it  ?  On  the  contra- 
ry, was  it  not  then  the  benevolent  equity  of  God,  in  threaten- 
ing them  with  endless  punishment,  that  more  than  any  thing- 
else  excited  this  enmity  ?  And  will  not  this  very  thing  ex- 
cite it  in  a  far  greater  degree,  when  they  are  enduring  that 
punishment  ?  I  say  again,  this  is  indeed  a  dreadful  reflection. 
But  what  is  there,  in  the  doom  of  the  wicked  beyond  the 
grave,  that  is  not  dreadful  ?  This  reflection  is  not  merely  an 
inference  from  the  preceding  premises,  depending  wholly 
upon  their  correctness.  If  they  could  be  proved  false,  this 
would  still  be  true  ;  for  it  has  the  word  of  God  for  its  foun- 
dation. With  the  v.'eeping  and  wailing  of  the  bottomless  pit 
there  will  be  mingled  the  blaspheming  of  irreconcilable  enmi- 
ty against  God.  Again  I  ask.  Who  does  not  shudder  at  the 
thought  ?  And  who  that  has  feeling  enough,  to  shudder  at  such 
a  thought,  can  live  at  ease  without  obeying  the  command  of 
God,  "  My  son,  give  me  thy  heart  ?" 

3.  Many  are  greatly  deceived  respecting  their  disposition 
toward  God. 

They  think  that  they  have  no  enmity  against  him — that 
they  never  had  any.  But  why  do  they  think  so  ?  Is  it  not 
because  most  of  their  time  has  been  spent  in  forgetfulness  of 
him  ?  Is  it  not  because  this  enmity  has  not  been  always  in  di- 
rect exercise  ?  And  when  they  have  occasionally  felt  it  stir- 
ring within  them  at  some  exhibition  of  the  justice  of  God, 
have  they  not  been  ready  to  flatter  themselves,  that  it  is  felt 
only  against  a  false  view  of  the  divine  character  ?  The  true 
character  of  God  they  would  fain  think  that  they  love,  and  that 
all  men  love  and  must  love  whenever  it  is  presented  to  them. 
They  pronounce  it  impossible  for  men  to  hate  a  being  of  in- 
finite goodness,  and  when  that  being  is  the  author  of  their  ex- 
istence with  all  its  blessings.  On  the  other  hand  they  pro- 
nounce it  impossible  for  men  to  love  God,  when  his  goodness 
is  made  to  include  infinite  justice.  Was  it  then  a  false 
view  of  the  divine  character,  which  Christ  exhibited  in  his 
preaching,  when  he  affirmed  of  the  men  of  the  world,  that 
they  had  both  seen  and  hated  both  him  and  his  Father  ?    The 


SERMOi\   XIII,  415 

character  which  Christ  ascribed  to  God,  was  certainly  his  real 
character ;  and  it  was  this  which  he  declared  to  be  thus  hated 
by  all  except  his  few  disciples.  The  fact  that  this  character 
was  thus  hated  proves,  that  it  was  not  represented  as  one, 
from  which  transgressors  have  nothing  to  fear. 

And  now,  my  impenitent  hearers,  let  me  say  to  you  with 
becoming  faithfulness.  Be  not  deceived  respecting  your  feel- 
ings toward  the  true  character  of  God.  Think  not  that  Christ 
misrepresented  the  divine  character,  or  the  human  heart. 
Think  not  that  you  have  no  enmity  against  God,  because  you 
are  not  generally  conscious  of  the  exercise  of  any.  Are  you 
generally  conscious  of  the  exercise  of  any  love  toward  him, 
or  even  of  any  thought  about  him  ?  Come  directly  to  the  test 
of  his  word.  If  you  love  him  you  keep  his  commandments. 
Do  you  then  keep  them  ?  Can  you  say  in  sincerity,  that  you 
make  it  your  constant  business  to  obey  God  in  all  things  ? 
How  has  it  been  with  you  the  past  week  ?  Fellow-sinners, 
come  to  the  test.  By  this  trial  you  will  see  what  is  in  your 
hearts  toward  God,  if  you  are  willing  to  see  it.  Have  you 
lived  through  the  last  week  without  prayer  ?  If  you  have,  is 
not  your  case  a  plain  one  ?  Can  you  fail  to  see  your  own 
moral  image  ?  Can  you  escape  from  the  sight  ?  Does  not  the 
command,  "  Pray  without  ceasing,"  meet  you  on  one  hand  ; 
and  the  declaration,  "  This  is  the  love  of  God,  that  we  keep 
his  commandments,"  meet  you  on  the  other  ?  And  are  you 
not  compelled  to  stand  trembling  between  them,  and  ac- 
knowledge that  you  are  destitute  of  the  love  of  God  ?  And 
after  this  acknowledgment,  must  not  the  further  declaration, 
"  He  that  is  not  with  me  is  against  me,"  rise  to  your  view, 
and  flash  into  your  minds  the  truth,  that  you  are  numbered 
among  his  enemies  ?  Or  are  you  determined  that  you  will 
not  be  brought  to  this  conclusion  by  any  such  process  of  rea- 
soning 1  Will  you  oppose  your  own  consciousness  to  the  uni- 
ted testimony  of  God's  word  and  your  conduct  ?  What  can 
this  avail  you,  when  you  see  the  vilest  of  men  do  the  same  ? 
Ask  them  if  they  hate  God,  and  they  will  answer,  No  !  we 
feel  that  we  do  not.     But  ask  them,  if  they  pray  daily;  and 


416  SERMON    XIII. 

they  answer.  No ! — Do  they  keep  the  Sabbath  holy  ?  No  ! — 
Do  they  always  speak  the  name  of  God  with  reverence?  No ! — 
And  yet  they  will  tell  you,  that  they  have  no  enmity  against 
him  ?  But  can  you  believe  them  ?  Do  you  not  stand  amazed 
at  their  blindness  ?  And  can  you  be  insensible  to  your  own  ? 
Can  any  thing  but  the  power  of  God  open  their  eyes  ?  And 
what  else  in  the  universe  can  open  yours  ?  Again  I  say,  "  Be 
not  deceived  ;  God  is  not  mocked" — No,  he  is  not  mocked. 
"  Now  consider  this,  ye  that  forget  God,  lest  He  tear  you  in 
pieces,  and  there  be  none  to  deliver." 


SERMOX  XIV. 


JOB,  viii.  9. 

•'  For  we  are  but  of  yesterday,  and  know  nothing,  because  our  days  upon  earth 
area  shadow." 

The  brevity  of  human  life  is  illustrated  in  the  word  of  God 
by  a  variety  of  the  most  striking  comparisons.  The  days  of 
man  are  said  to  be  swifter  than  a  weaver's  shuttle.  The 
generations  of  the  human  family  are  said  to  be  carried  away 
as  with  a  flood.  Life  is  called  a  vapour,  which  appeareth 
for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth  away.  It  is  likened  to 
the  grass  of  the  field,  which  is  gone  soon  as  the  blasting  wind 
of  the  east  passes  over  it.  It  is  likened  to  the  flower,  which 
groweth  up  and  flourisheth  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  even- 
ing is  cut  down  and  withered.  It  cannot  be  necessary  to 
say  any  thing,  to  show  the  propriety  or  force  of  these  simili- 
tudes. We  have  only  to  look  around  us,  to  see  them  justifi- 
ed in  their  full  extent  by  an  uninterrupted  succession  of  facts. 
Not  only  are  they  appropriate  and  forcible,  when  applied  to 
the  life  that  is  terminated  in  childhood  or  youth;  they  are 
but  little  less  so,  when  applied  to  that  which  is  prolonged  to 
the  utmost  hmit  allotted  to  man  on  the  earth.  For  to  an  im- 
mortal being  how  little  in  reality  is  the  difference  between 
ten  years  and  eighty,  or  between  the  life  of  a  single  day  and 
that  of  a  century.  It  is  a  difference,  which  it  would  seem 
will  hardly  be  thought  of,  after  we  have  spent  ages  in  the 
eternal  world.  How  like  the  passing  and  fading  vapour  of 
an  hour  appears  to  us  at  present  the  life  of  our  first  parents, 
and  of  their  immediate  descendant*.     And  when  we  have 

53 


418 


SERMON  XIV. 


existed  a  thousand  times  as  long,  as  the  whole  period  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  world,  it  would  seem  as  if,  on 
looking  back  to  this  dawn  of  our  existence,  we  shall  hardly 
remember  whether  its  length  was  one  year  or  twenty  years, 
or  fifty  or  three  score  and  ten.  Children  are  cut  down  like 
flowers  of  the  morning ;  youth  pass  away  like  the  bright 
vapours  of  noon ;  and  the  aged  spend  their  years  as  a  tale  that 
is  told.  One  generation  after  another  is  carried  away  as 
with  a  flood  ;  centuries  follow  each  other  like  shadows  of  fly- 
ing clouds ;  and  time  with  all  its  ages,  will  be  as  yester- 
day, when  it  is  past,  and  as  a  watch  in  the  night. 

In  the  passage  selected  as  the  theme  of  the  present  dis- 
course, this  brevity  of  human  life  is  given  as  the  reason  of  the 
small  amount  of  human  knowledge,  or  rather  as  a  reason 
why  this  amount  must  be  at  most  but  small.  "  We  are  but  of 
yesterday,  and  know  nothing,  because  our  days  upon  earth  are 
a  shadow."  How  can  our  knowledge  be  great,  when  we 
have  existed  only  as  it  were  since  yesterday  ?  We  have  not 
had  time  to  learn  much.  We  have  been  in  being  but  just 
long  enough,  to  look  around  on  a  few  of  the  works  and  ways 
of  God,  and  make  a  few  inquiries  respecting  his  character 
and  his  will,  and  respecting  our  own  state  and  prospects,  and 
come  to  a  few  conclusions  on  these  important  subjects.  Our 
days  on  the  earth  are  so  like  a  fleeting  shadow,  that  we  can 
only  begin  to  learn  before  they  are  gone.  We  can  cast  only 
a  look  or  two  on  a  single  page  of  the  vast  volume  of  nature, 
before  our  eyes  are  closed  in  death.  We  can  search  but  a 
hand's  breadth  into  the  treasures  of  wisdom  and  goodness-  in 
the  providence  of  God,  before  we  stumble  upon  the  dark 
mountains  and  drop  into  the  grave.  We  can  only  begin  to 
speak  or  hear  a  little  of  the  wonders  of  hoHness  and  mercy 
in  the  revelation  of  Jesus  Christ,  before  our  lips  and  our  ears 
are  sealed  up  in  the  sleep  of  the  tomb.  The  most  learned  in 
secular  knowledge  may  justly  say,  at  the  close  of  the  longest 
life,  "  We  are  but  of  yesterday,  and  know  nothing,  because 
our  days  upon  earth  are  a  shadow."  The  same  may  be  said 
with  equal  propriety,  and  in  like    circumstances,  by  those 


SERMON     XIV.  419 

Avho  have  made  the  greatest  attainments  in  divine  knowledge. 
This  was  said  to  the  holy  and  venerable  patriarch  Job,  by 
one  of  his  three  friends  and  counsellors,  in  a  day  of  mysteri- 
ous calamity.  And  it  was  said  with  direct  reference  to  that 
knowledge  which  relates  to  the  moral  character  and  govern- 
ment of  Jehovah.  Job  is  requested  to  inquire  of  former  ages, 
and  search  into  the  history  of  men  of  past  generations,  in  or- 
der to  learn  whether  the  Almighty  would  pervert  justice, 
whether  he  would  cast  aw^ay  any  but  for  their  transgressions, 
whether  he  would  not  awake  for  the  help  of  them  that  sought 
him,  and  whether  he  would  not  make  prosperous  the  habita- 
tion of  the  pure  and  upright,  and  make  the  paths  of  them  that 
forget  him,  like  the  rush  and  the  flag,  that  wither  in  their 
greenness  as  soon  as  the  water  at  the  root  is  gone.  It  is  in 
the  veiy  midst  of  these  subjects  of  inquiry  that  the  text  is 
found  ;  and  the  knowledge  spoken  of  in  it  is  most  evidently 
that  which  z'elates  to  these  and  similar  subjects.  It  is  divine 
knoMiedge,  or  perhaps  more  generally  the  knowledge  of  re- 
ligious truth.  On  the  great  subject  of  religion,  then,  in  its  in- 
finite extent  and  variety  of  particulars,  in  its  height  and  depth, 
its  length  and  breadth,  we  know  but  little  in  reality,  and  we 
know  nothing  in  comparison  with  what  there  is  to  be  known, 
and  that  because  we  are  of  yesterday,  and  our  days  on  the 
earth  are  a  shadow. 

If  in  the  remarks  that  have  now  been  made  a  correct  view 
has  been  given  of  the  direct  meaning  of  the  text,  we  may  de- 
rive from  it  indirectly  the  following  sentiment :  — The  reli- 
gious knowledge  of  saints  will  become  unspeakably  great  in 
eternity.  The  time  will  come  when  they  can  no  longer  say, 
that  they  are  but  of  yesterday  ;  and  they  can  never  say  that 
the  days  of  eternity  are  as  a  shadow.  They  will  not  be  in- 
terrupted at  the  very  commencement  of  their  progress.  The 
darkness  of  death  will  not  overtake  them  just  as  the  light  of 
truth  is  beginning  to  shed  on  their  path  a  few  glimmering  rays. 
The  ages  of  immortality,  as  they  roll  away,  will  afford  a  pe- 
riod long  enough  for  them  to  make  attainments  in  knowl- 
edge, far  beyond  the  conception  of  mortals.     Nor  can  it  be 


420  SERMON  xir. 

believed,  that  they  will  see  those  ages  roll  away,  and  live  in 
the  midst  of  higher  orders  of  intelligences,  and  near  the  great 
source  of  all  light,  and  yet  make  in  reality  no  such  attain- 
ments. 

But  it  may  not  be  unprofitable,  to  consider  more  particu- 
larly some  of  the  arguments,  in  support  of  the  sentiment, 
that  the  knowledge  of  saints  in  eternity  will  become  un- 
speakably great. 

1.  The  subjects  of  their  knowledge  are  infinite.  They  can 
therefore  never  be  exhausted  by  finite  minds.  Here  is  room 
for  everlasting  eflforts  and  attainments.  Here  is  a  race  set 
before  immortals,  to  which  there  is  no  end ;  but  a  higher  and 
higher  prize  at  every  step  invites  them  onward  forever.  The 
character  and  government,  the  works  and  ways,  of  the  infi- 
nite Being  on  the  throne  of  the  universe,  will  afford  an  un- 
limited field,  for  the  discovery  of  new  treasures  of  wisdom, 
and  wonders  of  benevolence.  It  may  seem  at  the  first  thought 
that  nothing  new  can  be  discovered  in  the  perfections  of  God. 
And  it  is  doubtless  true,  that  the  light  of  eternity  will  show 
us  no  new  perfection — none  of  which  we  are  now  wholly  ig- 
norant. There  is  no  reason  to  think  that  we  shall  hereafter 
become  acquainted  with  any  new  attribute  in  the  character  of 
God,  as  they  who  go  into  eternity  from  heathen  lands  will 
come  to  the  knowledge  of  his  mercy  through  the  redemption 
of  Christ,  when  they  may  have  been  before  entirely  ignorant 
of  the  existence  of  such  an  attribute.  On  the  contrary  we 
have  the  best  reason  to  believe,  that,  with  the  book  of  revela- 
tion open  before  us,  in  addition  to  the  book  of  nature  and  that 
of  providence,  we  are  now  able  to  ascertain  all  the  constitu- 
ent principles  of  the  divine  character.  But  is  this  the  end  of 
all  possible  or  all  desirable  knowledge  of  God  ?  Is  this  finding 
out  the  Almighty  to  perfection  ?  Is  there  not  beyond  this, 
enough  even  for  angels  to  learn,  and  enough  for  eternity  to 
teach  ?  Though  we  know  that  God  is  possessed  of  infinite 
wisdom  for  instance,  are  we  acquainted  with  all  the  proofs  of 
that  wisdom,  and  with  every  manifestation  of  it  in  the  king- 
dom of  nature  and  of  providence  and  of  grace,  from  the  fall 


SF.RMO.N'    MV.  421 

of  a  sparrow,  to  the  revolution  of  a  world,  and  to  the  death 
on  Calvary  ?  Though  we  know  that  God  is  infinitely  holy,  do 
we  know  every  thing  involved  in  this  attribute — every  thing 
which  it  requires  God  to  do,  in  all  worlds,  and  in  relation  to 
all  his  moral  creatures  ?  Though  we  know  that  God  is  infinite 
in  mercy,  do  we  know  all  the  instances  in  which  that  mercy 
has  been  or  shall  be  exhibited,  and  all  the  instances,  in  which 
it  may  be,  or  may  not  be,  consistently  with  the  honour  of  his 
throne  and  the  highest  good  of  the  universe  ?  And  thus  we 
may  say  of  the  other  attributes  of  God.  Well  then  may  we 
exclaim,  "  Canst  thou  by  searching  find  out  God  1  Canst  thou 
find  out  the  Almighty  to  perfection  ?  It  is  high  as  heaven :  what 
canst  thou  do  ?  deeper  than  hell  ;  what  canst  thou  know  ? 
The  measure  thereof  is  longer  than  the  earth,  and  broader  than 
the  sea."  However  much  we  may  have  studied  the  works 
and  the  word  of  Jehovah,  we  have  not  learnt  a  thousandth 
part  of  the  whole,  that  is  to  be  known  respecting  his  attributes. 
Indeed  we  can  say  no  more  than  that  we  have  begun  to  learn. 
But  the  attributes  of  God  are  not  the  only  exhaustless 
themes  for  contemplation,  and  subjects  for  everlasting  growth 
in  knowledge.  To  these  we  may  add  his  natural  and  moral 
government,  his  providential  dealing  towards  the  human  fam- 
ily in  various  ages,  and  towards  different  nations  and  individ;-- 
uals  in  all  their  variety  of  circumstances,  and  his  work  of  re- 
deeming love  in  all  its  mysteries  and  glories.  It  is  true  that 
these  subjects,  and  others  of  the  same  general  kind,  are  not 
entirely  distinct  from  those  contained  in  the  personal  attri- 
butes of  God,  for  the  knowledge  of  the  works  and  ways  of 
God  leads  directly  to  the  knowledge  of  his  attributes,  and  the 
latter  increases  with  the  increase  of  the  former.  These  sub- 
jects are  mentioned  separately,  for  the  purpose  of  giving  our 
thoughts  a  wider  range,  over  the  different  branches  of  the  pri- 
mary and  ultimate  subject  of  all  religious  knowledge,  the  in- 
finite God.  All  religious  truth  is  truth  relating  to  God  ;  and 
all  centres  in  him.  To  grow  in  religious  knowledge  is  to 
grow  in  the  knowledge  of  that  Being,  who  fills  immensity  and 
inhabits  eternity,  and  who  is  the  overflowing  fountain  of  light 


422  SERMON    XIV. 

and  life  and  joy  to  the  universe.  The  history  of  the  material 
creation,  is  a  history  of  the  power  and  the  goodness  of  God. 
The  history  of  providence  is  a  history  of  the  righteousness 
and  loving-kindness  of  God,  The  history  of  redemption,  the 
history  of  the  church,  and  the  history  of  every  ransomed  and 
sanctified  soul,  are  all  histories  of  the  perfect  holiness  and 
everlasting  mercy  of  God.  And  w^henever  any  one  becomes 
the  theme  of  meditation  in  heaven,  it  leads  all  the  thoughts  to 
God.  He  is  then  in  reality  the  one  great  subject  of  contem- 
plation in  that  blessed  world  ;  and  being  a  subject  literally  in- 
finite in  extent  and  glory,  why  should  not  all  the  inhabitants 
of  heaven  grow  in  knowledge  through  interminable  ages  ? 
And  if  their  eternity  be  so  employed,  will  not  their  knowledge 
become  unspeakably  great  ? 

2.  The  capacities  of  the  soul  will  never  fail.  Whether 
they  will  be  greatly  increased  or  not  by  an  immediate  act  of 
the  Almighty,  as  soon  as  the  soul  takes  its  happy  flight  from 
earth  and  enters  the  world  above,  is  perhaps  not  determined 
in  the  word  of  God.  It  is  evident  from  several  passages  that 
the  children  of  God  will  acquire  a  great  increase  of  know- 
ledge immediately  after  the  change  produced  by  death. 
They  will  at  once  become  acquainted  with  many  things, 
which  eye  had  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  and  which  had  never 
entered  into  the  heart  of  man.  The  opening  of  the  heavenly 
world  at  death,  to  the  man  who  has  lived  by  faith  in  its  invis- 
ble  glories,  is  like  the  first  view  of  the  starry  firmament,  to  a 
man  just  cured  of  a  natural  blindness,  after  having  learnt 
something  of  astronomy,  and  believed  upon  the  testimony  of 
others  in  the  existence  of  thousands  of  grand  and  beautiful 
orbs  while  yet  unseen.  But  from  the  sudden  increase  of 
knowledge,  after  the  saint's  departure,  it  cannot  with  certain- 
ty be  inferred,  that  his  capacities  must  be  increased  in  like 
manner.  The  most  that  can  be  inferred  is,  that  such  an  in- 
crease is  probable,  in  the  case  of  those  who  die  in  childhood. 
But  whether  this  be  the  fact  or  not,  there  is  unquestionable 
evidence,  that  the  capacities  of  the  soul  are  in  no  case  di- 
minished, either  at  its  departure   from  the  body,  or  at  any 


SFK-^ION    XIV. 


423 


subsequent  period  of  its  immortal  life.  If  then  on  entering 
the  world  of  spirits  they  should  only  remain  as  great  as  they 
are  here,  and  should  afterwards  increase  only  by  the  natural 
expanding  and  strengthening  power  of  increasing  knowledge, 
who  can  measure  the  attainments  that  may  yet  be  made  in 
the  ages  of  eternity  ?  Let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  that  pro- 
gress in  knowledge,  which  the  human  mind  is  capable  of  ma- 
king on  the  earth,  though  it  be  comparatively  nothing,  be- 
cause the  days  of  men  on  the  earth  are  a  shadow.  Let  us 
look  at  the  growth  of  knowledge,  from  childhood  to  old  age, 
in  the  mind  of  a  Newton.  At  first  he  becomes  acquainted 
with  one  object  after  another  in  the  dwelling  of  his  parents, 
then  with  the  objects  immediately  around  it,  then  with  those 
in  his  native  valley,  then  by  the  help  of  books  with  those  in 
his  country,  and  those  in  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe,  with 
their  mountains  and  rivers  and  seas  and  islands,  then  with  the 
history  of  all  the  empires  and  all  the  generations  of  men,  then 
with  the  nature  and  the  action  of  the  elements,  and  the  laws 
of  the  mineral  and  vegetable  and  animal  kingdoms,  and  then 
with  the  magnitudes  and  distances  and  revolutions  of  those 
planetary  worlds,  attending  one  of  the  eighty  millions  of  suns 
discovered  in  the  boundless  firmament.  Though  the  know- 
ledge here  described  be  called  secular  and  generally  used  as 
such,  yet  this  progress  in  it  illustrates  no  less  clearly  the  ca- 
pacities of  the  human  mind.  But  this  knowledge  may  be 
brought  to  bear  on  the  subject  of  religion,  and  may  be  conse- 
crated to  the  service  of  God,  and  thus  become  in  effect  like 
that  which  is  moi-e  appropriately  called  religious  knowledge. 
Let  us  then  look  at  the  mind  of  an  Edwards,  making  the  vast 
progress  just  mentioned,  and  employing  all  its  attainments  for 
holy  purposes,  and  at  the  same  time  adding  to  it,  in  the  un- 
limited range  of  truth  more  strictly  rehgious,  a  similar  pro- 
gress, from  the  first  idea  of  the  being  of  a  God,  to  the  Imow- 
ledge  of  his  various  attributes — of  his  creating  all  things  out 
of  nothing — his  filling  all  places  with  his  presence — his  sus^ 
taining  and  directing  every  thing  that  lives  and  moves — his 
ordering  all  things  in  the  natural  world  throughout  the  changes 


424 


SERMON    \1V. 


of  day  and  night  and  seasons  and  years — his  maintaining  a 
providential  government  of  judgments  and  mercies  over  every 
nation  and  through  every  age — his  reveahng  himself  as  the 
moral  Ruler  of  his  intelligent  creatures,  giving  them  laws 
which  are  holy,  just,  and  good,  in  their  nature,  and  in  their 
eternal  sanctions — his  creating  mankind  in  his  own  holy  im- 
age— his  providing  a  way  of  infinite  wisdom  and  mercy,  for 
their  recovery  from  the  ruin  of  the  fall,  by  the  incarnation  and 
death  of  his  8on  as  a  mediator — his  raising  this  mediator 
from  the  grave,  and  exalting  him  at  his  own  right  hand,  to  in- 
tercede continually  for  all  his  followers — his  sending  down 
the  Spirit  of  truth  and  grace,  to  give  repentance  of  sin  and 
faith  in  the  blood  of  atonement,  and  thus  to  sanctify  and  save 
the  soul — his  bringing  life  and  immortality  to  light  in  the  gos- 
pel— his  proclaiming  the  future  rising  of  the  dead,  and  as- 
sembling of  all  nations  before  his  throne  for  judgment,  and 
their  receiving  an  eternal  allotment  of  joy  or  wo,  according 
to  the  deeds  done  in  the  body — and  his  establishing  a  church 
in  the  world,  and  pi'eserving  it  through  the  revolutions  of  em- 
pires and  amid  hosts  of  enemies,  and  his  promising  to  make 
it  at  length  the  glory  of  all  lands — and  in  short  his  revealing 
by  his  word  a  vast  system  of  doctrines  and  duties,  connecting 
heaven  and  earth,  angels  and  men,  time  and  eternity,  crea- 
tures of  yesterday  and  their  eternal  Creator.  If  then  the  hu- 
man mind  is  capable  of  rising  so  high,  and  reaching  so  far, 
and  grasping  so  much,  in  this  momentary  life  ;  and  yet  all  this 
knowledge  is  called  nothing,  by  him  who  sees  what  remains 
to  be  known  ;  can  we  doubt  that  the  mental  powers,  should 
they  only  continue  hereafter  what  they  now  are,  will  be  for- 
ever employed  by  the  saints  above,  in  learning  more  and 
more  of  the  perfections,  the  works,  and  the  ways  of  the  Most 
High  ?  Can  we  believe  that  these  powers  will  be  inactive  in 
the  midst  of  a  universe  of  divine  wonders  ?  Will  the  redeem- 
ed in  glory  dream  away  the  ages  of  eternity  ?  Or  will  they 
do  nothing  but  sit  down  and  enjoy  the  reward  of  their  earthly 
labours  and  sufferings,  and  feed  the  flame  of  holy  love  with 
the  knowledge  acquired  on  the  earth  ?  Will  they  pant  after 


SERMON  XIV. 


425 


no  more  ?  Is  not  heaven  a  world  of  li^ht  as  well  as  of  love 
and  enjoyment  ?  And  is  not  that  light  the  source  of  that  love 
and  enjoyment  ?  Will  they  not  then  open  their  eyes,  and 
keep  them  open  forever,  to  behold  it  ?  Though  we  know  not 
the  particular  means,  by  which  they  may  receive  instruction, 
or  the  particular  manner  in  which  they  make  attainments  in 
knowledge,  have  we  not  reason  enough  for  believing  the  fact, 
and  for  believing  therefore  that  their  knowledge  will  become 
unspeakably  great  ? 

3.  All  hindrances  to  growth  in  knowledge  will  be  re- 
moved. In  the  present  life  there  are  many  and  various 
things  to  retard  this  growth.  Many  of  the  necessary  occu- 
pations of  men  are  such,  as  to  contribute  little  or  nothing  to 
its  advancement,  and  leave  but  little  time  for  its  advance- 
ment by  other  means.  Thousands  are  kept  in  a  state 
of  comparative  ignorance  by  poverty ;  and  thousands  are 
kept  in  such  a  state  by  slavery.  The  outward  circum- 
stances of  vast  multitudes  in  every  age  are  such,  that  they 
have  but  little  opportunity  for  making  progress  in  know- 
ledge. There  are  comparatively  few,  who  have  it  in  their 
power  to  devote  half  of  their  time,  to  the  acquisition  of 
knowledge,  to  be  employed  in  the  service  of  God.  Other 
hindrances  arise  from  the  natural  constitution  of  men  and 
from  their  moral  propensities.  These  bodies  of  flesh  and 
blood,  with  all  their  diseases  and  infirmities,  often  hang  as  it 
were  like  a  dead  weight  upon  the  soul.  Through  their  influ- 
ence the  powers  of  the  mind  are  often  disordered  and  enfee- 
bled. They  require  that  one  third  of  our  time  should  be  spent 
in  sleep, — that  is,  ten  years  in  thirty,  twenty  years  out  of 
sixty.  The  moral  condition  of  men  is  also  a  great  hindrance 
to  their  growth  in  religious  knowledge.  The  depravity  of 
their  hearts  naturally  awakens  a  hatred  of  the  light,  and  has 
a  constant  tendency  to  bring  on  a  dreadful  blindness  towards 
it.  Its  natural  effect  is  to  excite  prejudice  against  the 
truth,  to  turn  away  the  eye  from  beholding  the  proofs  of  it, 
or  the  judgment  from  acknowledging  their  weight,  or  to  fill 
the  soul  with  unbelief  respecting  it.     To  prevent  this  effect 

54 


426 


SERMON    XIV. 


requires  the  constant  exercise  of  the  opposite  principle  of  ho- 
liness. In  no  case  however,  not  even  in  that  of  the  most  em- 
inent saint,  is  the  principle  of  holiness  so  uniformly  powerful, 
as  altogether  to  prevent  this  effect  from  remaining  depravity. 

But  in  the  world  above  all  these  hindrances  will  be  remo- 
ved. There  will  be  no  sin  to  pervert  the  judgment,  and  hide 
the  evidences  of  truth,  and  bring  a  cloud  of  darkness  over  the 
soul.  There  will  be  no  high  thing  exalting  itself  against  the 
knowledge  of  God.  Among  all  the  inhabitants  of  heaven, 
there  will  never  be  a  moment's  dislike  to  retain  God  in  their 
knowledge.  It  will  never  enter  into  the  heart  of  any  to  say 
to  the  great  and  good  Being  on  the  throne  of  heaven,  "  De- 
part from  us,  for  we  desire  not  the  knowledge  of  thy  ways." 
There  will  be  no  mortal  bodies,  to  clog  the  wings  of  the  soul 
with  their  wants  and  weaknesses,  and  to  require  an  almost 
uninterrupted  succession  of  labour  and  sleep  for  their  sup- 
port. No  chains  of  sense  will  be  there,  to  bind  down  the 
faculties  of  the  illimitable  mind.  The  soul  will  be  all  eye  to 
behold  the  truth,  and  all  ear  to  hear  it,  and  all  intellect  to 
comprehend  it,  and  all  feeling  to  glow  with  the  love  of  it,  and 
of  its  eternal  Source  and  glorious  End.  There  will  be  no- 
thing in  the  outward  circumstances,  to  drive  or  to  tempt  the 
soul  away  from  the  study  of  the  infinite  subjects  of  know- 
ledge. It  will  be  free  to  expatiate  forever  over  the  bound 
less  extent  of  religious  truth.  And  will  not  this  liberty  be 
enjoyed  1  Will  not  the  untiring  spirit — having  escaped  from 
the  bondage  of  sense,  and  shaken  off  the  incumbrances  of 
flesh,  and  laid  aside  every  weight  of  sin,  and  having  shone 
forth  in  perfect  freedom  on  the  plains  of  immortality,  and 
fixed  upon  Jesus  an  unchangeable  look — will  it  not  then  run 
with  delight  the  endless  race  set  before  it  ?  And  will  not  ev- 
ery  voice  in  the  great  cloud  of  witnesses  around  bid  it  God 
speed  forever  ?  Who  then  shall  ever  say  to  it,  "  Hitherto  shalt 
thou  come,  but  no  further  ?" 

■4.  The  motives  to  growth  in  knowledge  will  always  be 
powerful.  There  is  probably,  among  speculative  believers  in 
Christianity,  a  very  general  impression,  that  when  eternal 


SEKMON  XIV. 


427 


misery  has  been  escaped,  and  eternal  happiness  scoured,  so 
that  the  fear  of  the  one   and  the  hope  of  the  other  exist  no 
longer,  the  great  governing  motives  to  obtain  religious  know- 
ledge will  be  taken  away.     They  seem  to  think,  that  when 
once  the  sound  of  "Come  ye  blessed"  has  greeted  the  ears  of 
the  redeemed,  and  the  gates  of  the  celestial  city  have  opened 
to  receive  them,  and  an  impassable  gulph  has  been  fixed  be- 
tween them  and   the  far-oft'  prison  of  despair,  they  will  sit 
down  in  the  contented  enjoyment  of  present  good,  and  seek 
to  know  no  more  of  the  infinite  Jehovah.     Nor  is  it  strange 
that  such  an  impression  should  prevail  among  men,  who  take 
no   delight  in   religious  truth  for  its  inherent  excellence,  and 
desire  an  acquaintance  with  it  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  se- 
cure their  own  safety.     Though  the  child  of  God  cannot  be 
insensible  to  the  love  of  happiness  and  the  hatred  of  misery, 
and  though  he  ought  not  to  be,  yet  he  is  capable  of  feeling  a 
mighty  influence  from  another  motive,  or  from  the  same  mo- 
tive operating  in  another  manner  than  by  the  mere  hope  of 
heaven  and  dread  of  hell.     His  happiness  is  directly  promo- 
ted by  a  discovery  of  the  intrinsic  glory   of   divine  truth, 
and  of  him  who  is  the  great  subject  of  it ;  and  while  this  hap- 
piness is  enjoyed,  he  cannot  but  be  excited  to  search  for  fur- 
ther discoveries.     Here  then  is  a  powerful  motive,  which 
will  last  when  the  hope  of  heaven  is  consummated  in  its  ac- 
tual enjoyment,  and  the  fear  of  hell  is  lost  in  the  assurance 
that  this  enjoyment  shall  never  end.     This  motive  may  per- 
haps be  denominated  the  love  of  happiness.     The  happiness 
however  is  any  thing  but  selfish  ;  and   the  love   is  any  thing 
but  selfish.     Both  are  purely  disinterested  ;  both  are  high  and 
holy  as  heaven.     This  motive  may  perhaps  be  regarded  as  a 
general  one,  including  such  particulars  as  the  love   of  truth, 
the  love  of  holiness,  and  the  love  of  the  general  good,  from 
all  of  which  there  flows  an  exalted  pleasure,  by  which  the 
love  itself  is  strengthened.     Or  the  general  motive,  including 
these  and  all  others  felt  in  heaven,  may  be  called  the  love  of 
God.     And  from  what  we  know  of  the  operation  of  this  prin- 
ciple on  the  earth  we  may  safely  argue,  that  the  joy  arising 


428  SERMON  XIV, 

from' the  exercise  of  it  in  eternity  will  prompt  the  soul  to  use 
the  proper  means  for  augmenting  the  power  of  the  principle 
itself.  These  means  are  found  in  an  increase  of  the  know- 
ledge of  God.  In  that  blessed  world,  where  every  thought, 
as  well  as  eveiy  affection,  is  sanctified,  there  is  the  best  rea- 
son to  beheve,  that  the  more  there  is  known  of  God, 
the  greater  will  be  the  love  to  him.  The  saint  that  is  highest 
in  knowledge  will  be  highest  in  love,  for  all  his  knowledge 
will  be  employed  to  swell  the  tide  of  love.  As  he  looks  in 
one  direction,  he  sees  some  new  manifestation  of  divine  wis- 
dom ;  his  love  glows  afresh  at  the  sight ;  and  the  increase  of 
joy  which  follows  becomes  in  turn  a  strong  motive  to  contin- 
ue the  search.  He  looks  in  another  direction,  and  sees  some 
new  manifestation  of  divine  holiness ;  and  the  same  effect  is 
produced.  He  looks  in  yet  another  direction,  and  sees  some 
new  manifestation  of  divine  benevolence  ;  and  the  effect  is 
still  the  same.  Thus  is  he  borne  forward  on  the  wings  of  a 
love  that  grows  stronger  and  stronger  forever.  His  spirit 
will  never  grow  weary  in  its  flight,  and  will  never  wander 
from  its  course.  Who  then  shall  set  bounds  which  it  can- 
not pass  ?  Who  can  measure  the  amount  of  knowledge 
which  it  will  gain  in  a  progress  without  termination,  when  it 
breathes  the  atmosphere  of  love,  and  lives  in  its  glowing  el- 
ement, and  moves  and  acts  under  the  full  impulse  of  its  ever- 
growing power. 

Having  now  considered  some  of  the  reasons,  why  it  is  pro- 
bable that  the  children  of  God,  who  know  comparatively 
nothing  in  this  momentary  life,  will  acquire  knowledge  un- 
speakably great  in  eternity — having  shown  this  probability 
from  the  infinite  subjects  of  knowledge,  from  the  unfailing 
capacities  of  the  soul,  from  the  removal  of  all  hindrances,  and 
from  the  operation  of  everlasting  motives,  the  discourse  will 
be  closed  with  two  brief  reflections. 

1.  The  view  which  has  been  taken  of  this  subject  shows 
us  the  extreme  folly  of  being  stumbled  at  mysteries  in  the 
present  life.  It  is  the  declaration  of  God,  that  while  in  this 
world  "we  know  but  in  part," — nay,  that  "we  know  nothing," 


SERMON  XIV.  429 

compared  with  the  immensity  of  truth  that  is  to  be  known. 
Life  is  so  transitory  that  we  have  not  time  to  make  great  ad- 
vances in  knowledge,  encompassed  as  we  are  by  so  many 
powerful  obstacles,  from  a  body  of  flesh,  a  heart  of  iniquity, 
and  a  world  of  temptation. 

It  may  be  important  to  remark  in  this  place,  that  the 
smallness  of  knowledge,  within  our  reach  on  this  side  of  the 
grave,  is  not  spoken  of  in  the  bible  as  an  excuse  for  indo- 
lence in  the  pursuit  9f  it.  Nor  does  it  furnish  ground  for 
that  skepticism,  which  finds  nothing  but  difficulty  every 
where,  and  throws  the  darkness  of  doubt  over  the  whole  sub- 
ject of  religion.  All  the  essential  principles  of  Christianity, 
involving  our  present  duty  and  preparation  for  our  immortal 
destiny,  we  are  permitted — nay,  we  are  commanded  to 
know.  Here  all  is  light ;  no  one  need  stumble  in  this  noon- 
day, and  grope  as  if  he  had  no  eyes.  But  beyond  this 
sphere  of  practical  truth  there  is  an  unlimited  field,  where 
are  heights  which  we  cannot  climb,  depths  which  we 
cannot  fathom,  and  labyrinths  through  which  we  cannot  find 
our  way.  And  we  have  reason  for  everlasting  gratitude  to 
God  that  there  is  such  a  field  for  future  discovery,  and  that 
it  is  now  beyond  our  reach,  lest  it  should  draw  us  far  away 
from  the  plain  path  to  heaven. 

2.  From  the  view  which  has  been  taken  of  this  subject, 
we  learn  the  glorious  destiny  of  the  children  of  God  in  eter- 
nity. Following  them  in  thought  beyond  the  bounds  of 
earth  and  time,  and  far  along  the  ages  of  their  immortal 
state,  we  behold  them  tracing  with  an  angel's  pen  the  char- 
acters of  truth  stamped  on  every  part  of  the  great  volume  of 
the  universe  ;  and  while  eternity  pours  in  its  light  from  ev- 
ery quarter  we  behold  them  rising  higher  and  higher  in  the 
knowledge  of  God,  as  well  as  advancing  from  one  degree 
of  grace  to  another,  and  from  glory  to  glory.  For  the  sake 
of  illustration,  let  us  suppose  that  one  of  the  patriarchs  of 
the  infant  world,  after  having  received  a  revealed  ac- 
count of  the  recent  birth  of  time  and  the  creation  of  the 
heavens  and  earth,  and  after  having  obtained  all  the  know- 


430  SERMON  XIV. 

ledge  within  the  reach  of  the  wisest  and  best  men  of  his 
generation — let  us  suppose  that  he  had  then  been  made  im- 
mortal here  below  in  the  full  possession  of  all  his  powers,  and 
had  been  carried  forward  from  one  generation  to  another, 
down  to  the  present,  and  had  gathered  from  each  all  that 
man  could  gather,  respecting  the  works  and  ways  of  the 
Most  High,  and  were  now  in  possession  of  the  whole,  with 
what  admiration  should  we  behold  him — and  how  like  an  an- 
gel's flight,  would  seem  to  us  liis  future  course,  amid  scenes 
continually  multiplying  and  brightening,  into  the  glories  of 
the  millennium,  and  onward  to  the  consummation  of  all  sub- 
lunary things.  But  how  soon  do  we  lose  sight  of  this  man's 
exaltation,  when  we  look  at  that  of  the  man  who  has  lived  as 
long,  or  a  thousand  times  as  long,  in  that  world  which  is  in 
the  highest  sense  full  of  the  knowledge  of  the  Lord  as  the 
waters  cover  the  sea, — and  where  that  knowledge  is  in- 
creased continually  by  the  many  bright  and  burning  spirits, 
that  fly  to  and  fro  through  the  universe, — and  where  Divine 
Wisdom  lifteth  up  her  voice  in  the  streets  of  gold,  and  crieth 
at  the  openings  of  the  pearly  gates,  and  in  the  chief  place  of 
concourse  for  saints  and  angels  before  the  throne  of  heaven, — 
and  where  there  is  no  need  of  the  sun  or  the  moon,  for  the 
Lord  God  and  the  Lamb  are  the  light  and  the  glory  forever. 
When  we  look  at  a  mountain,  whose  summit  is  among  the 
clouds,  we  feel  within  us  an  expanding  and  elevating  emo- 
tion ;  but  how  would  this  feeling  be  strengthened,  were  we 
to  behold  it  continually  growing  wider  and  rising  higher. 
And  it  is  a  glorious  sight  to  behold  an  intelligent  being  rescu- 
ed from  the  dominion  and  the  condemnation  of  sin,  and 
from  the  ruins  of  a  burning  world,  and  set  down  on  the 
shores  of  immortality  ;  but  how  is  the  glory  increased,  when 
we  behold  him  moving  forward  in  an  endless  course  of  im- 
provement— growing  wiser  and  holier  and  happier — his 
crown  ever  brightening,  and  his  voice  and  his  harp  sounding 
sweeter  and  louder  in  the  high  praises  of  eternity. 


r'-'--^ 


